


finding the sun

by 3ghosts



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Fix-It, M/M, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-16
Updated: 2017-10-02
Packaged: 2018-11-14 21:13:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 17
Words: 38,587
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11216388
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/3ghosts/pseuds/3ghosts
Summary: He wakes up with no memory of who he is or why he’s sitting under a star-filled sky, until he meets a thousand-year-old boy with a halo of black hair who takes him on a whirlwind of a journey through the life and times of one Ignis Scientia.(Or, the one where a clueless Ignis meets the God of Death, who is intent on guiding him to the afterlife. Except Ignis finds some way to throw a wrench into the young god’s plans by, well, attempting to help the poor kid out.)





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> _“How can it be that my memories are more alive than I am?”_ – **Love And Space Dust, David Jones**

“Hey. Wake up.”

Ignis blinks his eyes open. And it’s the first thing he registers. His eyes. Gritty and painful, but they see clearly. _(Clearly? Was he never able to see before?)_ And, more of a relief, there’s _colour_ , pure and crystalline. Until he sees that the colour is predominantly dark shadows and ugly greys and muted light. He tries to suppress the shiver that runs up his spine.

“That’s my chair.”

The voice that pipes up for the second time sounds young and several shades of petulant. It startles him and he has to whip his head to the left, and down, to see the source.

A boy.

A boy, no older than eight. Skinny, pale, with a mess of black hair and black bangs. He’s standing next to a giant marble shelf full of what looks to be leather-bound books in the corner of the—

“Where is this place?” Ignis manages to croak out with some amount of difficulty. His voice is raw, scratchy, unused, much to his embarrassment. And it sounds nothing like what he remembers. _(What does he even remember about his voice? Highborn. Never scratchy, never raw. Probably.)_ He shudders again and finally acknowledges that it is _freezing_ here. A chill that neither bites nor burns, but it’s enough to make him feel uncomfortable. 

There is only stone around him – a smooth floor of depressing grey, no proper walls, rubble and broken bits of dark marble everywhere, hallways that are no longer hallways, the occasional pillar holding up no roof overhead. A giant shelf, perfectly intact, with leather-bound books that look both ancient and unblemished. The only light source here seems to be coming from the glittering specks of stars above them, all floating in the distance like fireflies stuck in a well of ink. That can’t be the only light source because everything is clear as day, but he sees nothing else. Just stars hanging suspended and lonely.

He is _so cold_. 

But the boy looks entirely unaffected. 

“You wanna get off my chair first? _Then_ I’ll tell you what you need to know.”

Ignis refocuses his thoughts and realises he’s sitting on a hard surface. A giant throne made of hard rock. It hurts his back. Something about this situation seems unnerving, almost unreal, but he supposes he’s had weirder dreams _(dreams?)_ than this.

“It’s a very uncomfortable chair,” Ignis tells the boy as he carefully climbs off of it. It is a very large throne, meant for a giant. Or a god. “Cold. Hard.” He stumbles down the stone steps, down the dais, until he is level with the boy.

“Still. It’s mine,” the boy mumbles, and what Ignis registered as petulance before he now recognises as anxiousness and a touch of exasperation.

“Okay,” Ignis concedes, and crosses the distance to the shelf where the boy stands. There is a large book in his hands. It has a dark blue cover with dark glossy pages, but the page it’s open to is completely blank.

The boy shuts the book and shoves it back into an empty slot in the shelf. Ignis notes the cover is embossed with words he cannot decipher - an old language possibly.

“What’s your name?” the boy asks, because Ignis hasn’t thought to say anything. Ignis is still wondering what he’s doing here, why he can so clearly see everything around him, why he knows this is probably not a dream, why he can’t understand what’s written on the cover of that book.

The boy makes a soft, impatient noise. His name.

He doesn’t remember his name.

“Well.” He tries to come up with something. Nothing bubbles up, nothing touches the tip of his tongue. It should frustrate him, but Ignis only feels strangely hollow and indifferent.

The boy quirks a smile at his silence. “Oh, here we go,” he says, voice dry, but he’s still smiling, and something about the small curve of his lips makes Ignis think of a sudden sunrise — warm on his face, but unfathomably, immeasurably sad at the same time. _(Why would a sunrise make him sad? Have they always made him sad?)_

He wonders if the boy knows what’s going on. 

“Who are you?”

The boy glances at the bookshelf one last time before taking a step back and making a clucking noise with his tongue and gesturing for Ignis to—

“Sit, please.”

Ignis notices the… beanbags? that seem to have appeared out of nowhere, just a few feet from them, lumpy and misshapen. One blue, one green.

“Yeah, pretty neat right?” the boy says proudly as Ignis stares in confusion. “Only learned how to do that, uh, twenty souls ago? Started with small stuff like books and teacups. Found these chair thingies floating around. Took forever to figure out how to move them.” The boy flings himself onto one of the beanbags - the blue one - his back hitting the squishy material and his head resting comfortably. Ignis cautiously settles himself into the green one, not sure what to expect. But it feels like a beanbag should, comfortable and pliable, so he slowly relaxes into it.

It’s been a long time since he’s even seen a beanbag.

Probably.

“She calls me Noctis,” the boy finally says after Ignis leans back. “And it’s what that guy called me in, uh. Never mind. Yeah, I’ve stuck to Noctis. That’s possibly me. Who knows? Ha.”

“She. She calls you Noctis. Who’s she?”

“The lady in black.”

Ignis purses his lips, not sure if this boy – this _Noctis_ boy – is being deliberately vague. “Right. Well. I’m sorry I can’t give you my name in kind. It’s… I think it’s this place.” Ignis isn’t stupid. He knows something monumental has happened - is happening - and his memories being patchy is probably part of it.

“So clever,” Noctis says with a grin. “You’re one of the smart ones, aren’t you?” He looks happy, and it makes Ignis feel a little unsettled. _Queasy_. “You’ll get out of here quick. That’s… um, a relief.”

Ignis nods. “Thank goodness, then.” He goes to push his glasses up the bridge of his nose but his fingers meet nothing but air. He frowns. He _had_ always worn some type of eyewear on his face hadn’t he?

Noctis notices his discomfort - he seems to notice things - and flexes his fingers like he’s nervous. “You were blind,” he says, and all of a sudden there’s a book in his hands, this one different from the first. He flips through it and his eyes take on a distant and shuttered look. “From what I’ve seen, anyway.” He frowns and makes a movement like he wants to hand the book over to Ignis, but Ignis blinks and the book isn’t there anymore. “You were blind,” Noctis says again, simply, like he means to confirm it with himself.

“That would explain a few things,” Ignis says. “But I’m glad I can see right now. The view here is certainly, ah,” Ignis considers carefully the sky above and the ruins around him, “not what I’m used to. And I am certainly glad I can see who I’m conversing with.”

Noctis smiles a proper smile at him then, his young face alight with a boyish charm, though his eyes are still sad. “I’m glad, too.”

“Tell me, Noctis.” _Why am I here?_ Ignis wants to ask. But that’s not what comes out of his mouth. “How old are you?” he says instead. And Ignis knows it’s the most important question he will ever ask in his lifetime.

Noctis chuckles. It’s a warm sound that makes Ignis imagine the amber shades of a dying fire and the smell of earth and soil. “How old do you think I am?”

“I would hazard a guess of around eight, nine at the most, but – I suspect that’s off the mark by a fair few centuries. Can’t be sure.”

“You’re amazing, you know that?” Noctis says. “No one’s been so quick about this.”

This. This situation. The boy has a huge desolate smile on his face and, again, Ignis feels sick. “Noctis, do you know why I’m here?”

“Yeah, but I can’t tell you. I mean, I _could_. But it’s better if I show you. It’s… too hard to explain just like that. You’ll figure it out in no time, though. Trust me.”

“Show me, then. Please.”

“Of course,” Noctis stands on steady legs, offers a hand to Ignis to help him up. “It’s my job.”

 

Noctis leads him away from the throne room and to a different part of the ruins, their path snaking past a few spacious areas Ignis thinks had once been bedrooms or chambers. The place is massive, and he wonders if this had all once been a castle or a fort. All the furniture here is made of hard stone, even the broken-off spiral staircase he spies off in the distance looks like it is hewn from pale granite. It is a lonely place, Ignis thinks, with only the stars above for company.

He wonders if Noctis lives here, wonders if he's lived here his entire life. Where does he sleep?

They move through a corridor and the air here is different, like they’d just passed through an invisible barrier and the atmosphere suddenly feels heavier – a pressing force. Noctis just keeps moving forward on his sturdy little legs. It’s like a completely different _space_ and Ignis realises this might be a tunnel they’re moving through, a tunnel disconnected from the ruins they’d just left behind. He still sees the sky above them, a black abyss with specks of light, but the walls have closed in around them. They’re treading on highly polished tile now, their shoes emitting sharp clacks that don’t quite echo properly in the stifling air. 

The walls here are a glossy black, with streaks of opaque colour marbling through the stone.

“What is this place?” Ignis asks.

The boy glances back at him, not slowing down, a flicker of amusement playing on his face. “It’s… well, you’ll see.”  

They stop in front of a stark white door that looks so bright Ignis has to narrow his eyes to a squint at first. It’s completely intact, like so many of the doors they’d passed, and oh, they _have_ indeed passed a few doors Ignis now realises belatedly, but this one stands out. It looks like it doesn’t belong. There are two strange words etched into the smooth panel on the door, but they make no sense to Ignis – it’s definitely a language he doesn’t understand. Noctis seems to acknowledge his confusion and he clears his throat, places his palm on the silver doorknob. “There is a memory in here.”

Ignis frowns, unsure what this means. “I’m going inside, I take it?”

“Yes.”

“A memory, you say.”

“Something like that. You don’t know who you are, do you?”

Noctis voices the question that Ignis’ mind has been screaming since he arrived here. “No, I don’t,” Ignis says, quietly. “But—”

“This is how you learn.”

“You are to accompany me?” Ignis hopes his voice doesn’t betray the apprehension he feels. He doesn't know what’s happening here and this boy is the only person he’s met. He doesn’t want to be alone.

“I usually do,” the boy says, and Ignis breathes again. “As they say, I drive this train.” Noctis looks down at his fingers curling around the doorknob, a strange expression on his face, then he looks over his shoulder at Ignis. “Are you ready?”

Ignis considers Noctis for a moment. Then he nods and looks back at the door.

“Nothing to worry about, it’s a walk in the park.”

“Reassuring. Okay,” Ignis takes a breath. “Let’s walk.”

Noctis turns the knob, pushes the door open, and then there is so much light flooding _everything_. Pinpricks of quartz, splinters of colour. Sharp. Real.

There is a memory in here.

This is where Ignis first relearns his name.

It is the one inscribed on the door.

  

Ignis breathes the scent of blood. It is stinging and coppery and it makes his stomach churn.

He glances around and notices he’s standing in a long hallway filled with people hurrying about, looks of worry on their faces. Many of them have surgical gloves on. Some are bloodied. There are a few chairs placed along the walls.

“Is he going to live?” he hears a voice, pitched high in alarm and fear. The voice comes from a boy with floppy brown hair and glasses. He’s sitting in one of the chairs. He looks young and troubled, eyes puffy and tired like he’d been sitting in that chair all through the night, fighting tears.

“The King says he will, so he will,” comes a second voice, this one from the man sitting next to the boy.

Ignis tries to place these faces, but nothing comes to him. He looks around for help and notices that Noctis is standing right next to him. The dark-haired boy is biting his lip and looking at the bespectacled boy in the chair like he’s a puzzle.

Like this, Ignis can see they are maybe only a couple of years apart, Noctis being the younger.

Ignis clears his throat, which seems to snap Noctis out of his thoughts. Ignis is completely unsurprised that everyone else in the room doesn’t react to his presence. Him and Noctis are merely ghosts here.

Phantoms.

Everything feels like a dream.

“I didn't even say goodbye when he left,” the boy in the chair sniffles.

“He’s home now, stop fretting. You can speak to him when he awakens. And before you say anything, he _will_ awaken.”

“Uncle. Will he walk again?”

The man is silent for a long moment. The people around them – Ignis realises they are doctors and nurses – flit around in the background. The man sighs and reaches down to the floor where it seems a book has fallen, forgotten. Ignis notes the cover. It is a dark blue, like the book Noctis had held in his hands when he first woke up on the throne.

The man picks it up and hands it to the boy. “Don’t lose it, you told me it’s his favourite.”

The boy takes it and hugs it tight. The book is large against his small chest. 

“Now, stop crying,” the man says sternly. “He’ll be _fine_ , Ignis.”

Beside him, Noctis sighs. It sounds like relief.

Ignis himself has stopped looking at the man and the brown-haired boy in the chairs. “Noctis,” he starts. But Noctis speaks over him.

“This is the part where you ask me if you’re the kid,” he says.

Ignis gives Noctis a small smile. The boy looks expectant, and it’s so easy to just roll with it. “The words on the white door,” Ignis says instead, recalling the inscription that had made no sense to him.

Noctis rolls his eyes at the response, but he smiles. “ _Ignis Scientia_.”

“It’s a name.”

“Doesn’t sound like one, huh?” Noctis hums, nodding.

Ignis laughs. “No. But it does now.” He glances at the boy in the chair, who looks to be nodding off, arms still wrapped around the book. His uncle gives him a pat on the head. “This… this Ignis looks very young.”

“He’ll grow up,” Noctis says, giving Ignis a deliberate once over, then he steps back a bit and all of a sudden, they’re back in the black corridor with the white door in front of them. Except now, the white door is just black marble and there is no name on the front. Silence engulfs them once more, the hushed buzzing of doctors and nurses fading into nothingness.

Ignis blinks, feeling suddenly nauseous and _empty_ , then looks at Noctis. Noctis just looks back and shrugs, but Ignis can see that the boy’s eyes are alert and searching.

“The first one’s always weird,” Noctis says, “so if you feel like passing out, feel free.”

Ignis swallows and takes a deep breath. He shakes his head just once. “I feel fine.” Then, as an afterthought, he lifts a hand and holds it out. “The lady in black calls you Noctis. Nice to meet you Noctis. I can finally return the favour. I’m Ignis Scientia,” Ignis says formally. “I think.”

Noctis stares at Ignis. There’s complete surprise written on his face, like he hasn’t ever received such an introduction before, straitlaced and proper and real and _genuine_. Ignis thinks he probably hasn't.

After a beat, Noctis takes his hand and it feels very cold to Ignis. Ignis wonders if Noctis has ever felt warmth in this place.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _and i've been in the dark for some time; _-[Oceans, Emmit Fenn (ft. Nylo)](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0N3fKgfy51c)__

Noctis takes him back to the beanbags, which seem to have changed colour while they'd been gone. They are now both bright yellow.

“Reminds me of the giant birds,” Noctis explains offhandedly, and Ignis wants to ask him so many questions, questions like _what birds?_ and _you don’t mean to say there are birds here?_

But he just keeps his mouth shut.

The boy prattles on. “They look stupid but kinda cute, and you won’t believe how many worlds you can find them in.” He stops talking long enough to throw himself onto a beanbag and then he looks up at Ignis with unblinking eyes. “They’re so noisy when they jump.”

Ignis lowers himself onto the other squishy chair and says, “Noctis, do you live here? In this place?”

Noctis stills. Ignis has a feeling the boy hadn’t expected the question.

“I apologise if I’m being intrusive,” Ignis says quickly. “What I mean is, you appear to be the only person here.”

“M’not a person,” Noctis finally says after a moment, and if Ignis thinks he sounds a little bitter, he’s probably imagining it.

“Noctis, are you alone?”

The boy wrings his hands in his lap. “This isn’t what you’re supposed to be asking. You’re supposed to be all _where am I? Who am I? What am I doing here?”_

The way he pitches his voice is meant to be mocking, Ignis realises, but it just sounds miserable to his ears. Is Noctis unhappy that he’s asking the wrong questions? “Apologies, once more,” Ignis says.

Noctis frowns. “No, it’s fine. Short answer? Yes, I am alone.”

Ignis wants to take all his prying questions back, wants to never have uttered them. “I’m sorry to hear that,” he says, apologising for a third time, quietly.

Noctis looks down and fusses with a lumpy spot on the beanbag chair for a moment before he lets out a resigned sigh. “Let’s just keep up with it.” He stands and offers his hand to Ignis again.

He knows the hand will be icy cold. Ignis takes it anyway.

 

They return to the strange glossy black corridor with the many doors until they find another white one with his name on it. The corridor is surprisingly long and Ignis wonders where all the other doors lead to. The non-white ones.

He doesn’t have much time to consider it before Noctis opens the white door in front of them and slips inside without a word. He follows without question.

 

Once again, he’s greeted with the sight of blood, fresh and red. It’s trailing down the nose of a brown-haired teenager with glasses who’s sitting at a large mahogany desk piled high with heavy-looking books. The blood drips down onto an open page and Ignis watches as the kid makes a noise of frustration and drags his chair back to stand.

It takes Ignis a good long minute to realise he’s probably looking at a sixteen-year-old version of himself with a nosebleed.

The clock in the corner says it is 2:03 in the morning.

The kid retrieves a wad of tissues from a box by his bedside and presses a few of them against his face before trudging back to the desk to continue his studying.

In one pile, Ignis sees the titles _The Bloodlines of History_ and _The Tainting of Eos_ and _An Account of the Rise of Lucis_ among many others. These are old and thick. In another pile are several smaller tomes on etiquette and decorum and duty, one displaying the title _The Hand of the King_  in an ostentatious script along the spine _._ In yet another pile - books that aren’t bound in hard leather - are ones on politics, mathematics, law, physics, chemistry, medicine, gastronomy.

The book the teenager has open in front of him looks like trigonometry.

Ignis is bewildered by the sheer determination he sees in his teenage counterpart and before he can stop himself, he hears himself blurt out the words- “You’re a _scholar_ ”. The teenager at the desk ignores him (of course he does), so he looks to Noctis, who is standing to his right. “I’m a scholar?”  

Noctis shrugs in return. “Seems like it?”

Ignis smiles a little at the uncertainty in Noctis’ voice.

Something makes a noise on the desk. A phone has lit up and is vibrating.

Teenage Ignis stuffs some tissue up his nose, flips the page of the trigonometry book, and hits the loudspeaker button on his phone without actually glancing at it. “You’re awake,” he says in a huff, and despite the nasally tone from the tissue in his nose, Ignis can still hear an admonishing lilt in the adolescent’s voice.

“ _You’re_ awake!” The voice coming through the phone is loud and horrified. “Oh my god, Iggy. You’ve been studying too much. You need _sleep_.”

Teenage Ignis shoves the book he’s reading away from him and sighs. “I’m not studying. I’m – in bed. I’m actually about to turn the lights off. Goodnight, Your Highn—”

“Wow, you’re the worst liar in the world, you know that? Can you just _not_?”

“You’ve got school in the morning,” teenage Ignis counters.

“Yeah? You’ve got classes that start at 8, too.”

“You sound much too awake right now, Prince.”

“ _You_ sound like you’re _dying_.”

“That’s a touch dramatic, even for you.”

“Go to bed, Ignis.”

“N-”

“Not asking here.”

Teenage Ignis sighs, but there’s a resigned smile on his face. “Pulling rank?”

“Looks like I gotta,” the voice on the phone says primly. “Get your face out of your books, Specs.”

“As you wish. Goodnight, Prince.”

“Night, see you at training tomorrow. You better not look like a zombie.”

“Could say the same for you.”

There’s a snort on the other end and the line is quiet after that.

 

When they're back in the corridor, Ignis’ chest feels terribly heavy and he doesn’t know why.

Noctis just shoots him a sympathetic look and wordlessly leads him back to the throne room.

 

The beanbags are now sky blue and coral pink, but that’s not what immediately catches Ignis’ eye. There’s a creature sitting at the foot of the large stone chair.

“ _Now_ he decides to show up,” Noctis mumbles to Ignis before raising his voice, “Hey, Carbuncle. You’ve been gone a while. I was starting to think you forgot all about me.”

The creature stands, makes a yipping noise, and pads over.

“Ignis, meet Carbuncle. Carbuncle, here’s my new charge," Noctis makes an all-encompassing gesture with one hand towards Ignis' person. "I _think_ he’s Eos-born, judging by his last memory with the stack of books I saw. Funny, that. You’re from Eos too, right, Car? At least that’s what the lady in black told me.”

Carbuncle just stares balefully at Noctis for a moment before looking at Ignis. Most of what Noctis says goes right over Ignis’ head, so Ignis can relate to the quizzical stare the creature is giving him, he supposes.

Carbuncle is a small fox-like creature with a pale emerald coat, long ears, dark eyes, and a red jewel on its forehead. It yips at Ignis and nudges at his shin with its nose. Ignis reaches down and lets it sniff his hand. It presses its face into his palm and makes a pleased noise.

Noctis snorts. “I think he likes you. He comes and goes. It’s been maybe fifteen souls past since I’ve seen the guy.”

Ignis blinks. “Fifteen souls,” he echoes Noctis’ words. He’s itching to know about this whole souls business.

Noctis just squints at Ignis like he doesn’t know what to say, and Carbuncle is bumping its head against Ignis’ ankle so Ignis doesn’t press the matter.

“What does he want?” he says instead.

Noctis looks down at the creature and shrugs. “Dunno. I can’t communicate with him and he just does whatever he wants when he’s here.”

“At least he makes nice company,” Ignis says with a smile, watching as Carbuncle scampers up to Noctis and shakes its coat like it wants attention.

Noctis gives Ignis a funny look and says nothing, bends down a little to pat the little creature on the head.

“Is he hungry?”

“What?”

“Is Carbuncle hungry? Does he eat? Do _you_ eat, for that matter?”

Noctis makes a pained noise, straightens his back and rubs at his forehead, a look of frustration contorting his face. He doesn’t say anything and Ignis suddenly feels stupid.

“Noctis. What do you need me to say?”

“Not that!” Noctis bursts out. “Everything! _You_ , you’re supposed to ask about _you_. You’re not supposed to be asking about me, about who I am, where I live, why I’m here, why I’m alone, whether Carbuncle is hungry, whether I _eat_. How am I supposed to ferry you across this way?” he exclaims and his voice is loud and distressed.

Carbuncle darts a few feet away. Ignis gives it an apologetic look and he clears his throat. “Noctis, why do you need to ‘ferry me across’? What does that mean?”

Noctis stares at Ignis with a flickering expression that can only be described as conflicted before it settles into a wretched sort of acceptance. “Ignis Scientia, you died on Eos and I need to bring your soul to the next world. It’s my job. Also…” Noctis looks self-conscious this time, a little shy and unrehearsed, “… time doesn’t move here but, uh. I can’t remember ever eating a thing in my life.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is me writing a love letter to ignoct.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _broken stones, broken lightning, this house of doubt is all we know;_ \- [Home II, Dotan](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=oTVKeVReIgc)

The memory behind the third white door is confusing at first.

Not counting himself and Noctis, Ignis sees three people in a wide room, one of them clearly a version of himself around eighteen or nineteen, bespectacled and currently throwing a fit over something. The other two are similarly aged, both dark haired and covered in sweat. The shorter of the two is bleeding from the arm. A wicked-looking blade lies at his feet. The other is tall and muscular and holding an absurdly broad sword in his hands. He’s shouting back at the angry Ignis. 

There’s an argument happening and Ignis isn’t even really trying to figure out _what_ they’re arguing about because he’s trying to figure out why the injured boy looks so familiar. 

Nothing immediately clicks, so Ignis turns to look at Noctis. Noctis, who had actually let Ignis open the white door this time. “I can’t place these faces,” he says to the young boy, whose eyes, he notices belatedly, are a stark blue and fringed with distractingly long lashes. “But it would seem—” 

“Uh, maybe pay attention to the memory first, Mr. Scientia?” Noctis interrupts quickly as the shouting match in front of them escalates.

For some unfathomable reason, Ignis bristles at being called that _,_ but he shuts his mouth and continues to watch the unfolding squabble between the two tallest teenagers.

“You do _realise_ how much he’s been juggling since he’s started his training with his father,” pissed-off Ignis is snarling. “The crystal is already starting to take its toll on His Highness and on top of that, his royal obligations and school work—”

“Iggy, he can’t even warp in a straight line, naps every chance he gets, he sleeps _eleven_ hours—”

“Why do you _think_ that is, Gladio? Because every other waking hour—”

“No, don’t say it. Don’t tell me I gotta lighten up with the training because the king _told_ me to keep at it!”

“ _Guys_ ,” the dark-haired boy with the familiar face who’d been silent all this while drawls, voice dry and exasperated, “I am standing _right_ _here_. You know I’m bleeding, right? Anyone have a potion maybe? Or some earplugs?”

Teenage Ignis looks at him, expression immediately turning sheepish, but the other male still radiates anger. After a beat of nobody making a move, teenage Ignis huffs a sigh and dips a hand into his pocket. “Here, Noct,” he hands the injured boy a handkerchief, “I haven’t any potions on me. And from his steadfast silence, I’m guessing Gladio has none either. We’ll fix your arm in a minute, after I talk some sense into—”

“Save it, I’m done here,” the tallest boy grounds out. His weapon vanishes into nothingness – like _magic_ – and he storms out of the room, muttering not-so-discreetly under his breath about “coddling the prince” and “being too soft”.

There is silence for a moment and Ignis wonders if this is the part Noctis takes him back to the hallway of doors, but then the conversation between the remaining two boys starts up again.

“You don’t think I can handle it, do you?" 

“Noc—”

“No. It’s fine, I get it, you’re worried. But Gladio’s right.” 

“Is he? Because you passed out yesterday right after you tried to attune yourself to half the castle’s armory and today, you’re in here getting yourself cut up by your very well-meaning but very thick-headed instructor.” 

To that, there is no reply. Ignis watches as his counterpart grabs the piece of cloth and fusses over the cut in the boy’s arm.

“I know you are more than capable, Noct. More so now than ever. I just wish you’d take better care of yourself.” 

“Yeah, yeah. Prince of Lucis, gotta be responsible, not effective when dead, I know, I know.”

“ _Noct_. I’m not speaking as your chamberlain, I’m speaking as a friend. These last few weeks, you’ve been pushing yourself a little too hard. Don’t misunderstand, I'm pleased with your self-discipline. But… your wellbeing matters too. To me, not just the kingdom.”

The prince _(of Lucis?)_ – because that’s what Ignis now understands he is – deflates, the fight going out of him completely. He looks abashed, and it takes him a long moment to say anything. Instead, he watches as Ignis finally fashions the handkerchief into a makeshift bandage around his arm. Once the chamberlain is done and has stepped back a few paces, the prince clears his throat. “I’m, uh, I’m done reading the last report you left on the kitchen bench. Finished it this morning. And- no, wait, lemme finish. I’ve got just a bit of homework to wrap up later, but. If you want to? Uh, wanna come over and, uh, play video games or- no, that’s not your thing. We could order something in and watch a movie? Just chill?”

There’s a beat. Ignis can see a hint of a smile on the chamberlain’s face. His own face.

“… I’d be delighted to.”

“Wow. Did you just agree to takeout?”

“I agreed to the movie. Let me deal with dinner. I’ll pick up ingredients on the way to the apartment.”

The prince makes a disgruntled face like he means to object, then he sighs and breaks into an appreciative half-smile. “Sounds good. I promise I won’t pull a single muscle.”

 

Ignis feels a bit disoriented when they end up back at the corridor. Almost like he’d been pulled so deeply into the memory that it takes him a while to realise it’s not actually real. _(But hadn’t it been?)_  

Noctis touches his arm briefly and says, with a straight face, “Seems like you had a hard life. Are all Eos-born children so angry all the time?” 

Ignis blinks and wants to say something along the lines of _no, that’s just Gladio._ But it gets stuck in his throat. 

Noctis is already moving away.

The door in front of Ignis is no longer a beacon of light, but there’s another one just adjacent. Noctis yanks it open, beckons to Ignis, and Ignis jogs the distance.

 

They’re in the training room again.

This time, it’s just the Prince of Lucis and his chamberlain. The big guy is nowhere to be seen. Just as well, because at this stage Ignis doesn’t think he likes the aggressive attitude of the tall teenager. 

Some amount of time seems to have passed since the last time they were here. At least, the prince’s hair is a little longer and this Ignis just looks… different. Like there’s a heavier weight on his shoulders. His eyes are shadowed, his posture as straight and rigid as a noble with something to prove.

“The crystal’s telling me I can’t do it, but I’m definitely going to try,” the prince is mumbling. “Gladio and Prom can have as much space as they want to stash whatever the hell they want. I think you deserve something more. Just you, nobody else.”

“Stubborn and reckless as always. You are aware that the crystal grants only the use of natural elemancy to the line of Lucis? You want me to pull magic out of thin air. The lore tells me this isn’t possible – you can only _lend_ us the magic from your own stores, the crystal forbids the fashioning of elementia from the ether by anyone other than—”

“ _I know_. I know, but it’s been done.”

“I assume you speak of your father giving your mother the ability to use healing magic unbounded, but it’s not the same. And, as much as you loathe to hear it, you are not strong enough.”

“Can we at least _try,_ Specs?”

Ignis is completely startled out of watching the memory unfold when he suddenly spots Noctis slinking across the room to where the two phantoms are. Of course, they pay him no mind, even as Noctis passes through the shade of the prince and crosses over to the opposite end of the room to…

“What are you doing?” Ignis calls over to him warily.

“Watching. From a different angle. You really ought to be doing the same.” 

Ignis frowns. “What is the point? I don’t know what they’re talking about.”

“You’re meant to be learning.” 

Ignis purses his lips and looks back at the prince and his chamberlain and back at Noctis again. He frowns. _I’m meant to be learning,_ he thinks. But the God of Death looks like he’s learning something too.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ignis begins to realise just who the God of Death is, even though he's got a pretty long way to go before he figures out just what that means for the both of them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _fighting with half a soul that's aching to be whole_  
>  _if you could only see what i see;_ \- [Dreamer, Mokita (ft. Kaptan)](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=X0KJJF5gYDs)

When they return to the throne room, Ignis’ head buzzing and Noctis completely silent, there is no Carbuncle waiting for them by the beanbags. There aren’t _any_ beanbags. The bookshelf is still there, but Ignis supposes it’s always been there – an immovable piece of furniture that has remained. They move towards the raised dais and sit alongside each other on the second step leading up to the oversized throne.

Noctis is flexing his fingers mindlessly and muttering something under his breath. Ignis catches the uneasy frown on the little boy’s face.

Ignis doesn't like the frown – Noctis shouldn’t be frowning, he thinks, so Ignis ends up saying something to break Noctis’ concentration on whatever it is he’s thinking so hard about. “Curious thing,” he says as lightly as he can manage, “I’m dead. Actually dead.” It’s a topic that needs to be breached anyway, Ignis decides.

The frown on Noctis’ face disappears almost immediately. “Physically?” Noctis says, like a professional who knows his lines. Clockwork. “Totally. Your soul is here though.”

Ignis nods and gestures. “What about you?”

Noctis shakes his head. “Different case. Pay attention, Ignis. I’m not like you.”

“Then you’re a guide.”

 _The_ Guide, with a capital G most likely.

“Hit the nail on the head, good job.” Noctis tilts his head back and looks up at the stars above. They pulse brightly, as though they can see the boy is acknowledging their presence. A wry look crosses Noctis’ face before he looks back at Ignis. “The lady in black, with the pretty black hair – ugh, I can never remember her name… well, on good days I do. Anyway, she told me ‘bout the Goddess of Death, the one who ferries lost souls to the afterlife. I don’t remember _her_ name either. I never remember names. It doesn't matter." Noctis lifts a hand and waves it around in a lazy circle. "This is the house of the Goddess of Death.”

“This is a ruin.”

The boy chortles. “I meant this _world_ is the house of the Goddess of Death. Valhalla.” 

Ignis is silent for a moment. “Naturally,” he hears himself say. “Go on.”

“Anyway, the lady in black told me about the lost souls. She says they’re like stars, all burning bright. But—” the boy points to the sky, where so many bright lights twinkle like drops of rain in a storm, all looking for a place to land. “There are _millions_. So many. And all lost. The ones up there, the ones you’re looking at now — the stars. They’re _all_ souls that can’t quite get here. Can’t quite get across. Yet.” 

Ignis tries to digest all of this. Most of it makes perfect sense, and he can see where this might be going. The thought makes his chest constrict.

Noctis keeps going. “The lady in black said the Goddess of Death helps the lost ones. She harvests the stars and sends them on their way.”

“Of course. A reaper, in a way.”

Noctis visibly winces at this, then nods once and says, “The Goddess of Death passed a long time ago.”

“I see.” Ignis doesn’t say what he’s thinking because he understands what Noctis is trying to say.

The boy turns his head back to the sky _(is it even the sky?)_. “Been here so long. Still dunno how to pick and choose the ones I’ve gotta help. I mean, it’s what I’ve been doing for almost a thousand years, give or take – just an estimate. In Valhalla, there is no time. How long I’ve been here… could be five minutes, could be ten thousand years. Could be a fraction of a second. I’ve seen so many come and go… it’s the only way I can tell if I’m moving forward. Guess I’m supposed to be helping them all.” Noctis gives a shrug and glances at the stone throne behind them. He takes a deep breath. “Before you turned up, I summoned the one that used to be _there_ ,” he points to a specific spot in the sky that looks strangely unfilled. “It shone the brightest, and sure enough, after—” the boy makes a vague movement with his hand and Ignis realises he’s being gestured at. “You turned up in my chair. That’s how it happens.”

Ignis studies Noctis for a few moments as the boy finally falls silent. It is a lot to take in – the fact that Ignis had been plucked from the inky black soulscape above, _chosen_ by this child, this _god_. The God of _Death_. To be guided to the Beyond. A process that can’t be easy, Ignis thinks. A process that requires him to be subjected to old memories of a previous life. His previous life.

Yet, all Ignis can think is—

“Is this the only way you get to meet someone? To have any sort of social interaction?”

Noctis throws his hands up in the air as if to say _Really?! That’s what you want to know?_ The moment passes in a blink and Ignis is surprised by the oddly defensive tone Noctis uses in his next words. “It’s not like I’m always _completely_ alone.”

“No, but it seems lonely,” Ignis counters. “We come and go. No one stays.”

For one terrifying moment, Ignis thinks he’s crossed a line because there is suddenly no sound. No static. No air. No feeling of _life_ in the air around them. Nothing.

Noctis’ eyes bleed an endless blue, Ignis almost drowns in it. There is a sharp silence that may as well have been a scream before the boy grins and says,

“It’s okay. I’m used to it.”

Ignis doesn’t comment on the too-dismissive manner Noctis says his words.

 _It’s okay,_ he says.

It’s okay.

Ignis knows none of this is okay.

The next memory hits him hard in more ways than one. In retrospect, Ignis knows that this is the memory that breaks open a lock and unleashes a slowly trickling dam of other disconnected fragments in his mind.

It is nighttime in the next memory. And it is a darker memory than the others. The prince is young here, no older than nine, his shock of black hair plastered to his forehead. Sweat glistens on his face, he’s sitting hunched over in a bed, gasping for air. A young Ignis is there, cradling the prince’s shaking form.

Night terrors. Of course. 

Prince Noctis Lucis Caelum had many as a child after the incident.

The resurfaced memory comes naturally, as does the name, and Ignis feels something click into place in his echoing mind just as a hundred questions crowd it at the same time, biting and snarling and loud. But he keeps watching and doesn’t turn to look at the God of Death, whose presence he can feel radiating strongly next to him – invitingly familiar yet frozen in a different time.  

“Iggy,” the young Prince Noctis Lucis Caelum says in an excruciatingly shaky voice. An excruciatingly shaky and _familiar_ voice. A voice that once offhandedly told him about how stars were souls swimming in an endless sky, about how yellow beanbags reminded him of giant birds. “They keep dying. I keep seeing it. The fire, the _blood_.”

“Nothing will harm you here, prince. I can promise you, within the citadel walls, where the magic of the crystal surrounds us, you are safe. We are all safe.”

“… Don’t make me go back to sleep.”

“Would you like me to read to you?”

“Yes. Please.”

Young Ignis retrieves a book from the nearby desk and comes back to read it, perched on the edge of the bed next to the other boy. Before he starts, the soft-spoken prince pulls at his sleeve and says, “Promise you won’t let me fall asleep, Iggy.”

“Of course."

Eleven-year-old Ignis reads until Prince Noctis starts to nod off. When the exhausted prince is finally asleep, Ignis shuts the book and reaches out to dim the bedside lamp before he stands and puts the book away. He watches the prince for a few moments before eventually moving to the door to retire to his own quarters. After a second of pausing by the prince’s bedroom door, he changes his mind and crosses over to the sofa in the corner and falls asleep there for the rest of the night.

“They’re not in order,” Noctis says softly when they’re back in the throne room. Noctis. The God of Death with the same face as Prince Noctis Lucis Caelum. 

“Chronological, you mean?”

“Yeah. Uh. That.”

“Okay. I think I’ve figured that out for myself.”

“Yep, ever astute.”

Ignis smiles at the boy, who has decided to sit himself down on the cold floor by the bookshelf to lean his back against the marble and twiddle his thumbs. “You’re too young to know such words.”

Noctis grins. “Haven’t you been paying attention? I’m pretty damn old.”

“On the contrary, Noctis, I _was_ paying attention. You said time doesn’t move here. Which means you haven’t aged a second.” 

Noctis looks thoughtful. “’Kay, maybe I phrased that wrong. It’s not that time doesn’t move here. Time doesn’t… _exist_ here. So, I am every incarnation I used to be. I am eight, I am fourteen, I am twenty, I am a newborn, I am a hundred... well, unless my physical body hadn’t survived that long when I snuffed it.” 

Ignis frowns. “So, you looking like this…”

“Most souls I meet seem comfortable with me in this form. Harmless little kid, not a reaper of souls.” 

“You’re more of a ferryman.” 

“Whatever, Iggy.”

Ignis sobers up at the nickname and lowers himself down to sit on the stone floor next to Noctis. “I am unsure as to why you have decided to skirt the issue. However, it would seem my memories are telling me that we knew each other. Once.”

Noctis’ expression changes subtly to something more guarded. “The memories are not wrong,” he says, slow and cautious. 

“Then.”

Noctis shrugs, looks away for a moment. “It was like this with the other guy who came through here ages ago. He was from Eos, too. His memories were— I was in some of them.”

The other guy. So there’d been people who had also recognised Noctis outside of this world. Which means Noctis hadn’t always _been here_ , playing the part of the ferryman. “Noctis. You’ve been the God of Death for almost a millennia, but were you once human, like me? Might you also be Eos-born?”

Noctis doesn't respond for a long moment and his eyes are heart-wrenchingly bright when he finally opens his mouth. “I don't know, Ignis. I – really don’t. I don’t have any of my memories. I just ferry souls. That’s all I know. When you leave this place, I’ll be lucky if I even _remember_ your name. And…” the boy draws a deep, shaky breath like it aches his lungs. “Iggy, I’ve looked. I’ve _looked_ and there are no white doors that say _God of Death_ on the front. I’ve _looked,_ I swear.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (low-key threw in some very loose ffxiii lore. no spoilers for that universe, though.) 
> 
> i pretty much thought to myself "might be fun to write an alternate universe fic that's also totally canon-compliant".
> 
>  
> 
> _challenge accepted._


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _and the backs of my eyes hum with things I've never done;_ \- [Welcome Home, Son ; Radical Face](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Xoz-YIssgg4)

_The roads are perilous at night,_ is the first thing Ignis thinks when he’s faced with this memory. And then he registers the dusky purple and orange hues painting the sky overhead, a crisp canvas slowly deepening, shifting to darkness.

The sun is fast disappearing over the horizon and they’re in the midst of setting up camp, the four of them.

The four of them.

“ _Prompto_ , get off your ass and help with the fire.” That’s Gladiolus, with the gruff voice, older in this memory, but face unmistakable even in the fast-fading light. Ignis recognises his broad back, his thick arms, his dark hair. His deep voice. His tattoos peeking out from under his sleeves. Licks of ink – something feathered, Ignis remembers.

“Aw, man. Noct gets to sneak off for a fishing trip and I can’t even catch a break?” grumbles the blond seated on one of the foldout chairs.

“Prompto,” Ignis says out loud in wonder. The name finally registers.

Next to him, the God of Death has gone very, very still.

Ignis manages to spot his phantom self by the makeshift stove just a few feet away, but that’s about all he registers because all of a sudden there’s a huge explosion of fire somewhere down by the river and—

“Noct!” Prompto shoots out of his chair so fast it topples over. Gladio drops all the firewood in his arms and they scatter heavily, timber against stone. There is a scramble as Prompto rights himself and pulls a silver gun out of thin air as if to check it still exists. Gladio nods to him and they spring into action.

The Ignis by the stove has already taken off running in the direction of the riverbank.

The God of Death tugs on Ignis’ sleeve, motioning him to follow Prince Noctis’ retinue down the rocky outcrop and through the thicket of brambles towards the sound of shouting.

By the time they get there, there’s a full-blown fight between the four men and a group of hostile creatures with glittering eyes. Ignis doesn't know what the sinister things are, but they look entirely hideous to him.

There are glowing embers on the ground and the scent of burnt wood and charred soil wafting through the briny smell of the river. He feels something spark in the atmosphere, almost _tastes_ it, like the air around him is alive and pressing against every inch of his skin.

The fight takes several minutes and Ignis watches them from a patch of scorched grass several feet away with his eyes wide and his mind racing. Gladiolus is all strength and aggression, angry grunts and rippling muscle. Prompto is a ball of unbridled energy, rolling around in the mud and throwing himself practically in harm’s way without much thought. This is new and not new to him all at once. The Ignis in the fray is style and precision, every move polished and measured before execution, though he notices almost immediately that he shadows the prince half the time.

Prince Noctis himself is a mess of flailing limbs flying through the air ninety percent of the time, blue streaks flashing too bright in the dark. But despite the clumsy aerial acrobatics, there are moments of grace.

Ignis notices now that this Noctis is older than he’s seen so far. 

It’s Prompto who manages to land the final hit, and the fight is over in less than five minutes.

It’s Gladio who grumbles and berates the prince with a sharp “this is the _last time_ you’re going fishing alone”. His massive shield vanishes in wisps of light. 

“Hey, at least I _caught_ something. Fish for dinner sounds better than another round of cup—“

Noct is cut off by a deep rumbling noise just feet from where they all stand and Prompto all but squeals his displeasure as a colossal hand shrouded in swirls of black-purple fog shoots through the ground. “Oh great, _more_. Guys, why the hell did we decide to leave the campsite again?”

“Ask our damsel in distress,” Gladio growls before glancing at the Ignis with wicked-looking magic daggers in his hands. “Fight or flight?”

“Seeing as the haven is close by, we—“

_“There’s only one,”_ Noct interjects impatiently and disappears in a flash of light. He heads straight for the colossal beast that’s materialised, much to the dismay of the rest of his party.

Ignis sees it happen in his mind’s eye before it _actually happens_.

One second Noct is airborne, the next, a giant arm swipes through the air to meet him. There’s a loud crunch and the prince sails straight into the river with a huge splash.

“Man, I’d take cup noodles over _this situation_ any day,” Prompto says as he immediately starts shooting.

“Iggy, get Noct!” Gladio yells. “Make sure he’s okay.” Which is unnecessary because Ignis is already there in the water, dragging a body out. Green sparks permeate the air around the prince like fireflies. Healing magic.

“Wow. What an idiot.”

He’s so engrossed in the scene before them that it takes a while for the words to sink in.

He turns to the boy next to him and squints at him through the darkness. The God of Death is wearing an expression bordering on amused. “I’d use a different term to describe the prince,” Ignis offers sincerely. 

“What, dumb?”

“Fearless.”

Noctis snorts. “Pretty sure that’s just another word for dumb.”

Ignis smiles and watches as the party regroups and flees in the direction of the campsite. He looks back at Noctis. “Surely not. Weren’t you a straight-A student? You must have used a thesaurus at some stage.”

The boy just stares at him, all traces of humor suddenly gone from his expression.

It was a mistake to have said anything, Ignis realises too late.

 

When Noctis pulls them back to the hallway of doors, when he steps back and surveys the floor with an odd interest because he’s trying to look anywhere but at Ignis, he’s not the little boy who’s been dragging Ignis from memory to memory.

Noctis is taller.

Noctis is older.

_I am eight, I am fourteen, I am twenty, I am a newborn, I am a hundred._

Ignis doesn’t bother hiding his stare. And oh, his chest hurts when he looks. When he _sees_.

Hair just as dark, complexion just as pale, eyes as blue as stormwater, eyelashes just as distracting.

The God of Death is taller and older and the sight of him almost knocks Ignis breathless because he is unbearably _familiar_. He’d _always_ been familiar, but it is only now that his brain properly registers it. Everything, from the way Noctis’ shoulders hunch resolutely when he’s trying to play off his anxiety to the way he tries to avoid eye contact when he’s nervous.

And he _is_ nervous. Ignis knows.

In this form, Noctis looks every bit like the prince in the memory they’d just come out of, yet _nothing_ like him at the same time. Even the aura around him feels markedly different. That energy that Ignis has always subconsciously been aware of since he awoke on the throne, he understands it better now. He knows why it feels so off. It’s… smothered. Buried under stagnant time. Crushed. Forgotten. Hidden behind a transparent wall, sitting on the edge of his periphery, but _there_ , just out of reach.

And, gods, he’s never wanted to reach out for something _so much_.

Ignis wonders when he’d started to become so aware of Noctis. His being. His _magic_.

“Better?”

Ignis is startled out of his thoughts and he blinks rapidly. He’s probably been staring for far too long. But he catches it. He catches the splinter of emotion in Noctis’ words.

The apprehension.

The God of Death is terrified of his answer.

_Most souls I meet seem comfortable with me in this form. Harmless little kid, not a reaper of souls._

It takes no effort on Ignis’ part to respond. He needs Noctis to understand. “Better? Noctis, I don’t see a difference. You are the same person, whether you are eight, fourteen, twenty… a hundred.”

Noctis backpedals a step and gives Ignis a _look_. One that Ignis is unable to decipher. Or maybe he’s still too distracted by those eyelashes to fully read his expression. “Sap,” Noctis mutters. He’s smiling. It’s a nice smile, Ignis notes. It looks honest. Unguarded.

It’s a nice change to the sad smiles the little boy had worn.

“Just trying to reassure you,” Ignis says, smiling back. “You look good.” _Like a prince_ , he wants to say, though he only knows one prince, really.

Noctis stares at Ignis for a moment like he can’t decide whether he should laugh or scoff. He finally shakes his head and shoves a hand through his hair. “C’mon, we have a visitor,” Noctis says, turning and heading back in the direction of the throne room. “She’s been waiting.”


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _hear you, falling and lonely, cry out: will you fix me up? will you show me hope?_ \- [Someone to Stay, Vancouver Sleep Clinic](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xNVZ4fzkSu8)

They head back to the ruins, where it’s cold and bleak and lonely and silent, and there is indeed a woman standing in the middle of the wide stone hall, hovering by the bookshelf. Black fabric gleaming almost like polished leather clads her body. Her hair is the colour of midnight, her skin is pale as snow. A white shawl cuts across her shoulders. Ignis notes the gold accents and lace-like swirls that embellish her dress – they look out of place and _wrong_. 

Her lips are blood red.

_(They shouldn’t be.)_

She looks human.

_(She shouldn’t be.)_

“It has been too long, Chosen Keeper,” are her first words when they draw near. Ignis can’t make out the colour of her eyes, but her lips are much too red.

Noctis hums and sweeps the hair out of his eyes like he’s distracted. “Yep. Nice to see you too, lady.” His response is so blasé that Ignis has to wonder if Noctis is even on cordial terms with the visitor. There’s tolerance in his voice, and they are both clearly familiar with each other. Yet.

The lady in black inclines her head. “Likewise.” Her tone is polite and the smile she wears is patient. She gives the God of Death an amused look. “The form you take is most unusual,” she says. Ignis holds her gaze when her eyes flicker briefly towards him. She says nothing for a moment as she surveys him, quirks her lips, and looks back at Noctis. “Deathkeeper, do you recall the words I spoke when you were but a newborn?”

Ignis doesn't miss the way Noctis’ shoulders tense. 

“Lady, my memory’s pretty sketchy. You know how long I’ve been here?”

The woman regards Noctis coolly. “Forgive my oversight. Do you recall the words I spoke during our very last encounter, then?”

Noctis blinks, expression morphing from frustration to resignation. He sighs. "Not the exact words," he mutters darkly. "But, yeah. Barely."

He sounds so sullen that Ignis can't help himself. "Maybe keeping a diary would help," he says in what he hopes is a helpful tone, though judging by the way Noctis glares in his direction, perhaps not. 

"Funny you should say that. I _tried_ ,” Noctis sniffs. “Totally sucked at it. I stopped after my first hundred souls."

Ignis frowns. "How many souls have you ferried?"

"Do you really want to know? You know what? I have no idea. I stopped counting after—" Noctis cuts himself off and scowls fiercely at the lady in black, whose serene smile only makes Noctis frown even harder. "You're laughing at me, aren't you? Look at your smug face."

"Keeper,” the woman says evenly, “your endurance is admirable. You continue the wait, though your bonds are broken. That sweet child would be proud."

"Yeah," Noctis says, and his voice is dead. "Sure. Whatever."

The lady in black, as though she’s had enough of Noctis’ childishness, finally acknowledges Ignis proper. "Well met, Heart and Home,” she says calmly, “I recognise your face. I hope you find mine familiar in kind. Your guide is a stubborn one. Perhaps you already know."

The air is frigid as she speaks. Ignis doesn't know how to respond – his mind is fighting with him, trying to tell him something. He looks helplessly at Noctis, who just shrugs and says, "Huh, that's a new one, _Heart and Home_ ,” and Ignis can’t help the shiver that shoots straight up his spine. 

When he looks back at the lady in black, there is nothing but frost on the ground on which she once stood. 

"Well, that’s not even _helpful_. She's worse than Carbuncle," Noctis grumbles. “Can’t stand her.” His voice sounds tired. "Let's... just... sit down."

Ignis feels a familiar tug in the atmosphere. There’s a strange shimmer in the air a few feet from where they stand and when Ignis looks, the lumpy yellow beanbags are back.

Noctis makes a beeline for them and sinks into one. He’s a lot bigger now, so the chair doesn’t engulf his frame like it used to.

“Certainly an enigma,” Ignis says after he takes his own seat, when it seems Noctis isn’t about to start talking. “Who is she, exactly?” _What_ _is she?_ is probably a better question, but Ignis doesn’t like to be rude.

Noctis shrugs distractedly. “She likes to visit.” He kicks his feet against the floor restlessly, opens and closes his mouth like he means to say something more, but just ends up shrugging again. “Not anyone important, I guess.” 

Ignis sighs at the evasive response and decides to play his own game. "That last memory,” he says slowly, gauging Noctis for a reaction. “At the campsite, you seemed to recognise Prompto." 

To his credit, Noctis seems to have expected this from him because his expression doesn’t change in the slightest. "Hmm. Yeah, maybe.”

It’s a lazy response. A calculated one that gives Ignis the impression that Noctis is still being evasive. And Ignis _wants_ to push the subject, but he understands that Noctis is indeed a stubborn creature. Fortunately, he has learnt by now that Noctis will divulge information when he’s ready, so instead he says, "How many worlds are there?”

Noctis’ brows furrow. “How many…?” he echoes, clearly confused at the change in subject. “Uh. Many. Like, you can’t imagine how many. That many.”

“You’re a wealth of knowledge, aren’t you?”

Noctis laughs – an honest reaction at last. “Let’s ballpark it around infinity?”

“That’s only slightly better than your initial answer,” Ignis says, amused. “I’m guessing you don't know?”

Noctis shoots him a wide-eyed look that Ignis assumes is meant to be feigned outrage. “No one tells me anything, Iggy.”

“Not even the lady we just met?”

“She’s the worst out of them all.”

“Is she one of the souls you are meant to ferry?”

Noctis shakes his head. He taps a finger against his chin for a moment as though deliberating the best way to explain something. “See,” he says finally, “there are worlds out there, yeah? And most of these worlds have their own gods. Some are nice, some are completely nuts, a handful are total assholes.” At this, Noctis rolls his eyes. “They visit. Sometimes. I mean — okay, they’re always stupidly busy, doing whatever it is gods do. But sometimes they show up to make small talk.”

“So, you can communicate with different gods?” Makes sense, of course, if Noctis himself is one of their ranks.

“Yeah. From all over. Usually, they tell me which world they’re from. The lady in black visits most often, but she hasn't told me which world she’s tethered to. Pretty sure she _is_ a god. But hey, I guess that means Carbuncle might be one too.” Noctis sighs. “Very few stay for more than a few seconds. And anyway, when they do, it’s usually to see if I’ve been replaced by some new loser.”

Ignis can’t help the stare he levels at Noctis. “You are not eternal?”

Noctis blinks. “Well, no. I mean— we’ve established that before, right? I’m apparently Eos-born. It’s not like I’m one of the Greater Gods, like Hyne or Etro or whatever. I’m expendable, chosen as a ferryman to do the dirty work. I’m replaceable. I guess that’s a good thing, knowing I get to leave this place eventually. But who knows how long that’ll take, huh?” Noctis breaks eye contact at this, and Ignis wonders for a moment.

“Do you know anything of your predecessor?” 

“Nah.”

Something in Noctis’ tone gives Ignis the sinking feeling that Noctis had known absolutely nothing about _anything_ when he was thrust this role.

“She was probably someone who identified as a woman?” Noctis continues. “Goddess and all.”

Ignis appreciates his attempt at humour, despite how stilted he sounds. “If you have never met her, how did you come to learn of your role in this world?”

“Oh man, the really hard way. I didn’t get it right on my first try, or my second, or… it took a few. As a new god, I sucked so hard. I had some help, but I _did_ tell you Carbuncle and the lady in black are both pretty useless, didn’t I?”

“What about now?”

“Now?” Noctis shrugs. “Cake.”

"I suppose the trial and error helped,” Ignis says. “Well then, how does it happen? How do I make it to the next world?"

Noctis grins and claps his hands. “ _That’s_ the question I’ve been waiting to hear. How _does_ Ignis Scientia get to the next world? Well, what do you think we’ve been doing? You need to be whole first,” the god explains, like clockwork once more, natural and by the book. “You cannot pass through the veil without first regaining the bits of yourself you’ve lost."

Ignis understands this, at least. “You refer to the memories.”

"Exactly. These memories we’ve been visiting are the important ones, or the ones that have shaped you as a person. Memories that made you feel…“ Noctis trails off, eyes darting to the floor, his expression slipping to reveal something like realisation and, for a split second, panic.

“Noct?”

Noctis flinches at the sound of Ignis’ voice and he looks up quickly, clears his throat. “Uh, they’re memories that made you feel something. Feel alive.” 

Ignis considers Noctis’ strained voice and sudden poker face and struggles very hard not to start firing off some questions of his own. _But what of your own memories? Are you entirely bereft of them? Are you trapped here? We clearly knew each other. This can’t be your existence now. This can’t be your life._  
  
But Ignis already knows that he and Noctis are two different entities. Even outside of this place. Ignis is – _was?_ – human. Noctis is something else, has always been something else. A Deathkeeper, a god. Even on Eos, he had clearly been someone unattainable and completely out of the league of mortals.

It takes him a long moment to ask Noctis if he remembers the very first soul he’s pulled from the sky.

“No,” Noctis scoffs. “’Course not, that would have been an eternity ago. Glad the memory hasn’t stuck though. Probably embarrassed myself. Had no idea how to do the gig, pretty sure I completely fucked up the process. That diary I kept? It tells me my first few souls were so pissed with me they decided to go straight back home.” Noctis points to the soulscape above them. “Don’t know where they are now or if I’d managed to encounter some of them again.”

“I’m certain that—” 

“I don’t need the reassurance, Iggy. Have you started to recover on your own yet?”

Ignis can take the hint. And the question thrown at him is enough to make him stop and think. He wants to ask what Noctis means, but he doesn’t really have to, because Ignis is shocked to discover that he _is_ starting to recall many things that weren’t shown to him in the hallway of doors. They are more emotions and snippets of thought rather than memories, and they are fragmented. 

But, oh, he knows one thing for sure now. 

“I think her name is Gentiana.”

This startles Noctis. Completely and utterly. His confused expression morphs into a strange cross between delight and wariness. “You’ve met her.” 

“Clearly. We just had a conversation with her.”

“Wow, very funny. I mean, you _know_ her. Or know _of_ her, maybe.”

“That is very likely true.” 

Noctis still looks surprised, but eventually he snaps himself out of it. “So, you’re finally starting to recall details of your time on Eos without my help. This is good. Very good.”

“I think I would appreciate additional assistance, though.”

Noctis finally gets to his feet, his hair falling into his eyes like a curtain. “Let’s go see what else we can dig up about your past.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> as iggy moves forward, noct just goes nowhere.
> 
> someone had better come along to save him.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _was there one you saw too clearly? did they seem too real to you?_  
>  _they were kids that i once knew, they were kids that i once knew._  
>  _(now they're all dead hearts to you.)_  
>  \- [Dead Hearts, Stars](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JGHfIR6PK7M)

It is daytime.

He feels warmth wash across his face. It strikes him like a calm breeze and it feels welcoming and it feels soft and it feels like a dull ache pressing against his cheeks and his forehead and his eyelids. 

They’re sitting in the back of a moving car and it smells strongly of leather and faintly of something like cinnamon and maybe cologne from one of the passengers in the front. Sunlight slants in through tinted windows and everything feels so real, looks so crystal clear that Ignis has to remember how to breathe. Has to remember that this _isn’t_ real.

_(It’s real, of course it’s real, everything so far has been real.)_

The car makes a gentle left turn and Ignis’ knee bumps into Noctis’, though the God of Death seems preoccupied with staring wide-eyed out of the window next to him – staring at the buildings and the skyscrapers and the corner stores and the people flashing by in a whirlwind of muffled noise and late afternoon colour. 

The Crown City, Ignis decides, after a moment of sifting through his scraps of memories, after a moment of considering the familiar traffic lights, the familiar street names, the familiar landmarks scattered around them.

Insomnia.

The name sounds right, just as “Gentiana” sounds right and “Ignis Scientia” sounds right and “Noctis Lucis Caelum” sounds right.

There’s a conversation happening in the front. Ignis isn’t even surprised at who’s driving and who’s sitting in the passenger seat.

“— he’s failed like half the class, y’know? Absolutely _hate_ the guy. All of us do.”

“You’re not one of the students he’s failed. As I understand it, you’ve been the teacher’s pet all year.”

Prince Noctis grumbles. “Like he wants to _fail_ the Prince of Lucis.”

“That’s not how the grading system works, Noct.”

“Yeah, whatever. Pretty sure he’s sucking up. Anyway, not like I have to worry about him anymore once we get out.”

“Indeed.”

From where he sits at the back of the vehicle, Ignis can see the relaxed expression of Prince Noctis in the side mirror. Despite the conversation, the prince looks content. His eyes are shut and he’s slumped in the passenger seat like he’s had a long day. He’s wearing a school uniform, though his tie is askew and his blazer is draped precariously across the dashboard in front of him.

It’s a little weird to find two Noctises in the same car, both with similar faces. Ignis supposes that, right now, the God of Death looks slightly older, but not by very much.

“I know I don’t need to remind you, Noct, but it’s your graduation ball in less than a month,” Ignis-in-the-front says.

The prince doesn’t react for a moment. “Meh.”

“You _are_ going, are you not?”

Noct cracks his eyes open, possibly at his companion's skeptical tone. “I dunno, Specs. I mean, Prom’s going, so I guess I should turn up. But he’s got his date anyway, so s’not like he needs moral support or whatever. Mia’s got his back. I wasn’t going to—”

“Highness, are you telling me you still haven’t given the ball any thought?”

The prince groans and straightens up in his chair. “Uh. No? Well, kinda? It’s all anyone talks about at school anymore. And ugh, they’ve been forcing us to learn how to dance. Like _proper_ lessons, Iggy. Not like I _need_ them since, uh, when did Dad make us do it? Think I was thirteen or something. Dunno. You probably remember. Anyway. There’s gonna be _dancing_.” 

“So you don’t plan on showing up.”

“I don’t. Because why should I? It’s just some stupid event. Don’t even have a date. And you know me, I don’t _like_ these things.”

“You realise it’s going to be nothing like your average state gala.”

“Same thing. Just with a bunch of teenagers." 

“Yes, and you are one of them." 

“Mm-hmm.”

“You don’t have to pretend you’re not. You may be the Crown Prince, but you’re also seventeen.”

The prince scowls at his reflection in the mirror and Ignis sees frustration there.

“Noct, has no one asked you to go with them?”

“Uh.” The prince gives a helpless shrug and starts messing with his hair restlessly. “Like, maybe six or seven girls? One dude. Wait, I think it was more like… nine girls. I don’t even remember anymore.” 

“You turned them _all_ down?” 

“’Cause I told them I wasn’t going! And no, _please_ don’t give me that coming-of-age talk. I’m not biting.”

“… I wasn’t going to. But now I’m curious as to what you plan on doing instead, while everyone else is at the ball celebrating their newfound _coming-of-age_ independence?”

“Dunno.” Noctis slides down his seat, sinking low. “Was thinking of… asking if you’d be free to, um, go for dinner somewhere, maybe. You know. Food. Food’s good. You like food, right?”

The invitation is so painfully delivered that there’s no mistaking it for what it is. 

When the silence stretches, the prince laughs a little and fiddles with the door handle like he’s about to bolt out of the moving car. “… Iggy, if you say you'd prefer to _cook_ dinner, I’m going to scream.”

It’s the fear he recognises in that instance. It laces the prince’s voice, radiates from him, like the fear he’d sensed from the God of Death when he’d stepped away from the last memory looking like a young man and not a small, harmless child, expecting nothing but rejection.

“Noctis, you’d rather have dinner in my company than go to your graduation ball.” It doesn’t sound like a question, Ignis realises, because it’s resignation he hears in the chamberlain’s voice instead. Resignation and acceptance.

He knew then. He always knew.

“Yeah,” Prince Noctis mumbles. “Please don’t read too much into it. Or… well.” 

“Noctis. _Your Highness_. Your father would probably rather you went to—“

“Holy _shit_ , Ignis. Okay, you win. You’ve _won_. The ball is important, I get it. Rite of passage bullshit, sure. Great. Totally agree.” There’s a stoplight and the car comes to a halt. Noct takes a breath and continues his rant. “You think it’s _that_ important? Come to the ball with me, then, as my date. _Oh_ _fuck_ that’s not even what I _— Ignis—_ “

“Thank the gods you asked first. I was just about to suggest it.” 

The prince shuts up and stares at his chamberlain for a long moment. The fear evaporates just like that. Eventually, the prince lets out a huge sigh. “Why the hell didn’t I ask sooner?”

“Am I not to read too much into this?”

The prince takes an eternity to pull himself into a proper sitting position again, takes a moment to compose himself, and turns to hold his chamberlain’s gaze with an expression that, from the backseat, Ignis cannot see. “You can read this like a book, Ignis.”

 

How the God of Death can stand the cold is beyond Ignis. It’s starting to become maddening.

There is no warmth here. Never has been warmth here, according to Noctis.

“So, you call this place Valhalla?” Ignis asks, when he and the God of Death are back in the throne room and lying side-by-side on the stone floor, looking up at the heaven of stars like they’re looking at moving constellations and having a casual conversation about the how high chocobos can fly, how shooting stars are probably the Draconian’s way of telling Eos it’s time to go to sleep, how _lying on the ground is probably really terrible for your back, Noct, we should probably get back to the city._

Ignis’ eyelids feel heavy. Ignis feels heavy everywhere.

Noctis shifts beside him. “It’s what several gods call this place. Probably has lots of other names. It’s kinda like a crossroads, a bridge between a million other worlds. I am the lone ferryman, taking souls to other worlds to be reborn. Where you’re from - and where I’m from, I guess - it’s not the only world out there. But souls cannot be reborn in the same world consecutively; they must cross over to a new world. Eos-born cannot return to Eos. Yeah, it’s stupid. So many souls want to return to the world they'd just departed from, it’s natural. But they can’t. So they just... float around in the sea of other lost souls, trying to get home - to get to the world they were tethered to."

Ignis doesn’t interrupt Noctis while he explains. There is nothing to say. They're both staring at the burning souls painted across the dark sky but what Ignis really wants to do is stare at the God of Death while he talks.

“That’s where I come in,” Noctis continues. “Valhalla is not part of this collection of worlds. Time here doesn't move. Or, well, it just behaves weird. Like, you know, I don't age. And some guy told me I was, like, thirty when I left Eos.”

Ignis hears the slight change in Noctis’ voice, and he’s cautious when he voices his question. “And this guy would be?”

Noctis twitches. “Yellow hair, big mouth. Freckles. Shoots guns. That kid we saw.”

“Oh. Prompto.”

“Yeah. Sorry,” Noctis mumbles quickly, “names always slip my mind. Yeah, he told me.”

“You’ve—” Ignis cuts himself off because he doesn’t know if he needs to laugh or cry or hyperventilate. “So Prompto  _has_  been here. In this very hall.” 

“Been and gone.”

“You didn’t think to bring it up? Even after I asked?” Ignis’ voice is mild, but he thinks he might be angry, or worse, disappointed, because this is _Prompto_ they’re talking about, and he might not know how significant that is, not yet, but it's _Prompto_ and _he_ _has been here_ , which means there’s a chance Noctis has, once upon a time, seen Ignis in some of the boy’s memories, which means maybe Noctis has had some clue about who he is— and so _why doesn’t he_?

“It’s not like that,” Noctis says sharply, snapping his head to the side so he’s glaring at Ignis. “It’s not… I’m not… I can’t  _remember_ , Ignis. He was here  _lifetimes_  ago. I try, I do! I _try_ to remember, he told me I _had_ to. But. My memory isn’t flawless! No one’s memory is _flawless_. It’s been hundreds of souls,  _thousands_ maybe.” Noctis turns away, breathing heavily. “They blend into one. I can’t tell who I am, who he is, sometimes I can’t even tell one soul from the next. I just exist. _I just do my job._ ” 

Ignis hears the words Noctis doesn’t say. 

 _It’s pointless to try to remember._ _It hurts to remember. I just end up forgetting._

“Noct, I’m so sorry.” 

Noctis shakes his head. “I made him a promise, that much I remember. I am trying so damn hard to keep it. Even _she_ knows.”

Ignis thinks he means Gentiana.

After that, Noctis says nothing more and Ignis figures that in time, he will learn of the promise made between the God of Death and Prompto Argentum.

Until then, he’ll endure the cold and find a way to burn the rule book.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _those words we hid from the start, i've picked them up again from the bottom of a lonely heart;_ \- [Collide, Aeralie Brighton](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=915xdjSxM9o)

They wander down the glossy black corridor once more, trying to seek out the next white door, and this time it takes much longer to find one. The corridor doesn’t seem to end, just seems to stretch on forever. It’s a baffling thing, but every time they come here, they have to travel deeper and deeper to get to the next memory.

There’s something peculiar about the walls now, something he overlooked the first time. They’re trying to tell Ignis something. There are whispers coming through the darkened doors they pass, from the dark tiles they tread on. He can’t help but think the entire hallway – the entire _memory lane_ – is trying to tell him something important.

Ignis squints at the stars overhead. Millions of souls, tiny specks with their own stories to tell, all shining bright. All silent and screaming at the same time. He glances at Noctis, who Ignis knows has been shooting him fleeting looks the whole time when he thinks Ignis isn’t paying attention. Not that Ignis particularly minds, but it does make him curious and just a little self-conscious. 

“Something on your mind?” Ignis asks.

Noctis rolls his eyes and Ignis resists the urge to smile at the typical response. “No,” Noctis mutters, and he sounds terribly unconvincing. “Something on yours?”

Ignis has so much to say, but he has a strong feeling Noctis will not appreciate him voicing his thoughts, especially since majority of them are of memories that directly concern the life Noctis once led a long time ago (or perhaps a fraction of a second ago). A life that Noctis does not remember in the slightest. “I have a favour to ask of you,” Ignis says instead.

Noctis gives him a suspicious look. “Do you?”

“Well, it’s not quite a favour, but if you don’t mind, may I call you ‘Noct’?”

Noctis falters a step. “You don’t need permission. You already have, several times.”

“I know, but I also realise it might not be a name you’re used to. Or one that you even want.”

There’s a door with _Ignis Scientia_ on the front and Noctis yanks it open, looks back at Ignis for a moment, and says, “It’s fine, Iggy. I like it. Your prince probably did, too.”

Ignis watches Noctis stalk through the door before he follows behind helplessly.

 

This next memory is one that Ignis knows well. _Of course_ his mind has chosen to scream at him and tell him that _this_ is the one to remember with excruciating clarity. _Of course_ his memory lane would eventually take him here.

It is late, well past dinnertime. Prince Noctis sweeps into his apartment like a hurricane, his anger coursing through the main hall and sparking in the atmosphere like an electrical storm. It stings. Even from the far corner of the living room, it feels dangerous.

“I got your text,” the prince spits at Ignis, who’s in the kitchen tending to a simmering pot full of stew by the stove. Noctis slams his phone down on the kitchen counter and glares at his chamberlain and, yes, he remembers the disgust and fury and hurt in those eyes. A wild animal, trapped and afraid and unapologetically defiant. “What the hell do you want me to say?” 

Ignis is silent for a moment as he turns the fire down, places a lid on the pot, wipes his hands on the apron he’s wearing. “Noct, you know this isn’t what I want.”

“Oh, well fuck, because it seems like what you really want is to break up with me through a really shit text message because you think it’s the _proper thing to do given the circumstances, Your Highness._ ” 

“Is it not?” Ignis’ voice is calm, but it betrays everything. _(The spike in his pulse, the feeling of guilt and terror. He remembers.)_

“Ignis, no. No! Fuck. Don't do this. Not this.”

“We can’t, Prince.”

“Because it’s inappropriate?”

“Do you have any idea—”

“Did someone say something to you?” Noctis snaps.

“What? No—”

“Then what the fuck are you doing?”

“I am _Advisor to the Future King of Lucis_ ,” Ignis snarls mercilessly. “Your chamberlain, your _guide_. First and foremost, I serve under the royal family and _you,_ Noctis _,_ are the heir to the throne. The word _inappropriate_ doesn’t even begin to _describe_ this—.”

“Are you _kidding_ me? First and foremost, you are my _friend_. You can’t do this to us. _Iggy_ ,” Noctis pleads, and his distress overrides his fury for a split second, “ _don’t do this to us._ ”

“I can and I must, Your Highness.”

The fire on the stove bursts to life in a blaze of red before blowing out completely. “What the _hell_ , Ignis. You can’t even call me by my name anymore? I’m just the dumb prince to you? I’ve known you my entire fucking life. Don’t you fucking _dare_ use my title as some kind of _shield_ to make yourself feel better. I know you feel shit about your shitty decision. This isn’t what you _want_.” 

Ignis takes a step back. “Listen to yourself, Noctis.” 

“No, _you_ listen. We haven’t even done a _thing_ , I haven’t even _touched_ you _,_ and you’re already calling it off. Do you have any idea how _long_ … how _much_ …” Noctis struggles to say what he means to say and there is too much pain in his expression, too much brightness in his eyes. “When you said yes to the ball, and then to dinner after, I knew I had a shot, and I know I _still do_ because I know you feel the same. You can’t just destroy this now that we’re—”

“It’s what’s right, Noct. Before it gets to the point where it will hurt even worse.”

Noctis screams. “ _Get the fuck out_ , _Ignis_. Just go.”

“Your dinner—”

“I _hate_ you,” the prince cuts his chamberlain off, ice in his voice, ice in the air. “I hate you.” He grabs his phone off the counter, throws it as hard as he can through his bedroom door across the hall and disappears after it in an explosion of light.

The bedroom door slams so loudly it makes even the God of Death wince.

The memory is so appalling, Ignis snaps himself out of it, pulls away _so hard_ that when he blinks, he’s back in the hallway of doors and no longer in the familiar apartment.

He sucks in a breath and tries to steady himself with a hand on the smooth surface of the door they’d just come back through. The marble is cold under his palm and he tries to block out the shame he feels, the bitterness he tastes.

“Need to throw up now?” the voice that had been screaming at him just moments before says hesitantly to his right.

Ignis steps away from the door and turns to look at the God of Death blankly.

“I mean, I _did_ tell you throwing up was a possibility,” Noctis points out huffily. 

Ignis wants to laugh, because it’s just the thing this ridiculous boy would say. Also, he’s sure he isn’t imagining the concern hidden behind the sulky tone. “I’m fine,” Ignis says, which is a lie since nothing has been fine since he’s stepped foot in Valhalla, but he’s quite good at lying. His mind is still reeling from the memory, but he stops thinking long enough to ask, “Yourself?”

Noctis shrugs. “Does it matter?” 

Ignis doesn’t like the question, doesn’t like the apathetic tone. “Of course it does.”

Noctis looks unsure. “Okay, then. Tell me. Do we— do they make up? After that?” 

“After…?” Ignis shuts his eyes and tries to breathe. Tries to remember. And he does. It’s why he backed straight out of the memory. Because he knows what happens after. He remembers a sleepless night on the sofa. He remembers soft light spilling from an open door at three in the morning. He remembers a broken apology and tears in the dark. Above all, he remembers tears that aren’t his own smeared across his face. “Yes,” Ignis says eventually. “We do.”

Noctis nods once and motions for Ignis to follow him down the hallway. “Glad to hear.”

Ignis falls into step beside the young god. “But,” he continues, because he has to say it, “I don’t think it was ever… well, after that night, everything changed.”

“Oh.” Noctis is quiet. “Did we, uh— I mean. Did they…?” His inquiring tone leaves an unspoken question that can mean anything. _Did they talk it out? Did they break up? Did they spend the night hating each other? Did they still want each other? Did they still need each other? Did they…?_

But really, what punches Ignis in the gut is the fact that Noctis has to exclude himself as a third party. Like an outsider. Because he doesn’t think he’s anyone but the God of Death.

_Did they._

Ignis holds his breath for a moment, trying to prioritise his thoughts. “Yes,” he says finally. “Yes.”

He doesn’t know what he’s saying yes to.

“Oh.” Noctis looks pensive. “There’s a second chance for everything,” he says softly. “I guess.” 

Ignis looks at Noctis, this Noctis, this impossible enigma with zero understanding of what he’d just seen in the memory they’d left behind. This Noctis, who speaks so calmly of second chances without judgement that it makes Ignis’ head hurt. He sighs. “I know.”

Ignis knows so many things. That night, in the depths of Prince Noctis’ apartment, twenty-eight floors above the Crown City, Noctis had been angry and Noctis had been apologetic. And Noctis had been passionate. And Ignis remembers this, remembers the trembling fingers pulling off his glasses, remembers the heat of another body pressing against his. It is the first time they share a proper kiss, Noctis petrified and remorseful, and Ignis guilty and forgiving.

Noctis is the boy he fell in love with.

He’s known this all along. He just forgot. Just like he’s always known about the beanbags stored in the ether because once upon a time, when Noct grew sick of botching his landings one too many times during training, he got Ignis to purchase a dozen beanbags and the prince sent them straight to his Arsenal because “hey, I don't plan on breaking my back anytime soon.” And King Regis had been so annoyed about Noct materialising beanbags to catch his falls, mostly because trainee Glaives started taking a leaf out of the prince's book. Eventually Noct grew up and stopped using them and they'd been forgotten in the ether. Until now.

He remembers the book of constellations with the blue cover and the glossy pages. The one that he had spied Noctis slipping back into the bookshelf when he first laid eyes on the God of Death. Ignis had presented the Prince of Lucis the book when he turned seven. Noctis does not know what it means anymore, and Ignis does not know how to tell him.

He remembers things the prince used to love. Tenebraen tarts and ridiculously pixelated video games (“those really old school ones Prom kinda hates”). Lakeside fishing.

He remembers a picky eater, he remembers a messy apartment, he remembers the way Noct’s eyes had lit up when the Star of Lucis rolled into view on his twentieth birthday. 

He remembers how he hurt Noct, how he tried so hard to put him first, not as a friend but as a prince.

It’s a slap in the face.

The God of Death _is_ Noctis Lucis Caelum. But he is only Noctis Lucis Caelum _if he is whole_. Only if he has the memories. But Ignis doesn’t know how to tell him any of this, doesn't know how to tell him _anything_. Because he’s aware that saying any of this would be the equivalent of shoving a knife into an already open wound.

 

It takes them a while to get back to the throne room. By the time it comes into view, Ignis feels the heaviness in his body again. He’s glad for the green beanbags that Noctis conjures up in the middle of the hall. It feels a bit like home when he sinks into one of them.

They look at each other from where they sit in silence. 

The stars look down at them from high above.

“So these memories,” Ignis says, because he needs to find a way to fix things, to figure out what he has to do now. “They’re supposed to help me regain fragments of myself so that I can finally cross over to a new world, correct?” 

Noctis nods, a pleased expression on his face. “Yeah. It’s my job to see it done. You’re doing pretty well.”

Ignis considers the memories he’s seen so far, considers the god before him. “Well, I have to say, I’m glad you’re taking me through these doors.”

Noctis snorts. “Can’t imagine why. You seem to have had a pretty stressful life. Hope you don’t mind me saying this, but the Prince of Lucis is a complete asshole.”

Despite the barb, Ignis crosses his arms and shoots Noctis an amused look. “A bit of a handful, yes. Nonetheless, I’m still glad we’re both sifting through these memories. If you don’t mind _me_ saying, it would seem my white doors are as good as yours.”

Noctis stares at Ignis for several long seconds like he doesn’t know what to do or say or even think. Then, he pulls a face. “Man, Iggy, you really are a _sap_.”

Ignis hears the casual exasperation in the boy’s voice, but he says nothing and cracks a small smile instead, because he can see it. He can see the light in Noctis’ eyes. And though he’s sure Noctis doesn’t even realise it, it’s the first time since arriving in this cold, horrible place that he’s seen the boy look this _alive_. 

Like perhaps he’s been waiting for this moment - this very encounter - for a very, very long time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _my heart is raw and torn, but my mind understands you're worth fighting for_.
> 
> guys, this song is totally fuelling this story.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _though your heart is far too young to realise the unimaginable light you hold inside, i’ll give you everything i have;_ \- [light, sleeping at last](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Bk69DmpCYrw)

There is salt in the air. He smells it, tangy and faint, but it’s there like a nostalgic reminder, both bittersweet and poignant. It’s quiet here. Then again, Cape Caem had always been quiet. A forgotten outpost with a run-down homestead and a forsaken lighthouse and a vegetable patch that no one cared to touch.

It’s late. The house is silent. Light from the upstairs windows shine through the darkness, but it’s not quite enough to chase the deep shadows away. At least there’s the moon and the ghostly reflection from the sea to illuminate the cape.

A motionless silhouette stands by the wooden fence bordering the edge of the cliff - Noctis, presumably, judging by his posture and stance, looking down at the shifting waters that stretch out in front of him. The sound of approaching footsteps coming from around the front of the house makes him turn.

The sea sings its static song. A voice carries in the wind.

“Can’t sleep?”

Noctis makes an annoyed sound. “Ugh, I told Prom not to—”

“Prompto told me you didn’t want to be disturbed, yes. And then he told me I should try to talk to you anyway. He said you looked like you were in a brooding mood. Only the gods would know why he thinks _I’d_ be able to help. You’re hopeless.”

Noctis actually laughs at that. “Prompto knows best, I guess.” He looks back out towards the sea, quiet for a moment. “He’s probably not wrong, you know?”

Ignis nods. “I’ll take the compliment.” He’s silent as he moves to stand next to Noctis and places his hands on the wooden fence. There’s composure in his voice, as if he knows he’s about to venture into an unpredictable conversation and isn’t about to let anything destroy an unspoken truce. Perhaps this is how it's always been, with Noctis. “I know this journey has been trying and filled with loss. But tomorrow might bring good fortune. Once we set sail, once we meet the Lady Lunafreya, there might be a silver lining out of all this darkness.”

Noctis sighs and nods. “There’s that. Would be good to see Luna again. She… really needs our help. She needs all the help she can get. And. Yeah, it’s been twelve years. Wonder what she’s like now.”

“You’ve kept in touch, I’m sure you have some idea.”

“Uh-huh, sure, her handwriting’s great,” Noctis mutters cynically, but there’s a smile in his voice. “Seriously, I won’t know what to say when I see her.”

Ignis sighs. “You’re childhood friends, Noct. You’ll figure it out. You can at least thank her for entreating the aid of the Archaean and the Fulgurian.”

Noctis huffs a breath, opens his mouth like he’s about to say something, but thinks better of it. He frowns and looks up at the sky and at the moon. It’s full and round and bright. There isn’t a cloud in sight and the stars are ethereal and beautiful. “I just wish none of this was happening,” Noctis says in a voice that sounds very small and very tired. “I wish Insomnia never…” His voice fades with the washing tide below. “I wish we were back home. I wish we still _had_ a home. I wish Dad—“

“Noct.”

“I know.”

They stand in silence, looking at the sea. The sky above is made of ink and diamonds. The moonlight is so strong and so bright that the water below gleams a stark silver.

“He knew, you know?” Noctis says suddenly.

“Pardon?”

“Dad knew that I…” Noctis shakes his head. “Never mind. Doesn’t matter. Not right now.”

“Talk to me, Noctis.”

Noctis shrugs. “After high school, he asked me if I was seeing anyone. Some weird father-son bonding moment, I dunno. I flat out told him no. It was the truth. But I told him it was because you wouldn’t let me. Took me a while to explain that I meant you wouldn’t let me see _you_.”

“Oh. I see. Did he—”

“Chill, he was on your side. He understood. He said you did the right thing. But, for what it’s worth, he didn’t like the situation any more than I did. But he understood.”

“Noctis…”

“I understand too, Specs. It’s fine. You didn’t like it either. Suffer together, right?” Noctis nudges Ignis in the arm, then sighs and looks out towards the sea. “I miss him. I miss home. And, I know we haven’t brought it up since that night, but… I just wanted you to know that I regret none of it. Us, I mean. I would never. I still think about it. All the time.”

The sound of the sea quells for a moment, and the air feels lighter.

Noctis finally glances to his left, at Ignis. “Do you?”

“All the time, Noctis.”

Noctis nods, like it’s all he's ever wanted to hear, and takes a step back from the fence like he means to retreat.

Ignis moves then, turns to face his childhood friend, his _oldest_ friend, moves to wrap his fingers around one of Noctis’ wrists and—

The kiss only lasts a few seconds, but Ignis remembers that it lasted long enough to wipe the surprise off Noctis’ face and replace it with triumph. Triumph and joy and acceptance. Not pain or desperation. Not the terrified need for forgiveness.

The air around them vibrates with pure magic. Enough magic that it feels like Noctis is _everywhere_ at once.

It is _nothing_ like the first kiss they shared. It is _everything_ Ignis wanted to give to Noctis.

The wind picks up as they break apart. The floorboards of the house behind them creak abruptly and there are soft voices from upstairs – Gladio saying something, Iris laughing, doors shutting, Prompto yelling goodnight, loud enough for his voice to carry outside, perhaps intentionally.

The lights from the upper bedroom window overlooking the sea wink out.

Noctis and Ignis look at each other. Ignis’ fingers are still holding Noctis’ wrist.

“I think it’s bedtime,” Ignis says quietly. “How can I coax you back inside the house?”

Noctis doesn’t even miss a beat. “The sky’s nice tonight,” he grumbles.

Ignis pauses and looks up at the flecks of golden starlight painted across the vast expanse of black. It takes him a moment of studying the glittering constellations, and then studying Noctis. He slides his fingers down from Noctis’ wrist to catch Noctis’ hand and tugs him away from the fence. “Come on a walk with me, Noct.”

Noctis gives him a curious look, but doesn’t question him.

They make their way down to the Regalia in silence. Ignis retrieves two sleeping bags from the trunk of the car and leads them back up the hill towards the house.

They lay down on a flat patch of grass by the side of the house. They watch the stars until they fall asleep. And the last words Ignis says to Noctis that night, before sleep claims the both of them, are words that will follow him to his grave.

“Tomorrow,” Ignis hears himself say in the darkness, “we leave for Altissia, and everything will look brighter. I promise.”

The words hang in the air like a beacon of hope and Noctis doesn’t say anything in return. He just nods and closes his eyes, like he wants to believe every word.

 

Ignis doesn’t even realise the God of Death has a hand on his shoulder until he realises he’s shaking.

He’s shaking because everything about Altissia had been death and darkness.

 

Ignis sinks to his knees. The marble is cold, but that’s not a surprise. He sits against the closed door for a moment and shuts his eyes. He can sense Noctis hovering over him, but the god only stays quiet. There are no quips about passing out or throwing up. Just silent concern, radiating from Noctis in waves.

After a long moment, Ignis opens his eyes again and glances around. The hallway is as dark and beautiful as he remembers. It makes him dizzy. He takes a deep breath. “I think I’m starting to recall what this place is,” he says, because it’s just hit him. And because he needs to get the sound of the sea out of his head.

The corridor with the dark glossy tiles streaked with pale colour. How could he forget? All those games of hide and seek, all the sneaking out in the middle of the night, all the sharp echoes and faint squeaks of shoes on polished marble.

Noctis kneels down in front of him. “Only natural. This is your memory lane, after all. You must have noticed that every time we come here, we enter a space that’s disconnected from the ruins of Valhalla. In your case, your memories have kept themselves in this corridor.” Noctis looks serious when he says this, like he’s telling him the secrets of the universe. The secrets of every universe. “It’s not always a literal path you walk down, with doors that open to fresh memories. I've met souls who’ve had more, uh, metaphorical memory banks, like houses or objects or pictures. But whatever it is, it’s usually something familiar.”

Ignis smiles at the explanation. The patience in Noctis’ voice is soothing. Ignis likes the sound of Noctis’ voice. “It’s the Citadel. Looks like one of the upper-level hallways,” he tells Noctis, and he knows his voice is filled with fondness. He knows Noctis can tell.

“Spent a lot of your childhood at this place, did you?” Noctis asks, pushing himself to his feet.

“Yes,” Ignis says, and he holds out his hand. Noctis takes it without hesitation and pulls Ignis to his feet. “So did you, Noct.” He says it without thinking, without even _considering_.

Noctis drops Ignis’ hand. Ignis knows he’s said the wrong thing.

“Home sweet home,” Noctis says, and his tone is flat.

Ignis wants to correct himself, but there’s nothing to correct because what he’s said is the truth. Maybe in a different life, but it’s still the truth. “I didn’t mean to—“

“Yes, you did. And no, it doesn’t matter.”

Ignis winces at the clipped tone, opens his mouth to say something, _anything_ , but instead, he _yawns_. It catches him completely off guard. His entire body feels like stone.

It doesn’t seem to come as a surprise to Noctis. The God of Death only sighs. “Finally,” he says. “You’re starting to remember that you actually get tired.” It’s strange, Ignis thinks, because Noctis’ words also sound tired. “Follow me. There’s a place you can sleep.”

Ignis blinks. Sleep. Is that even a possibility here? He considers his exhausted state. He’s definitely tired enough for sleep. But Noctis. The boy only turns his back to Ignis and walks down the corridor without another word.

 

Noctis takes him back to the ruins, but not back to the hall with the throne. He brings him to a small room, though it only has three broken walls, no ceiling, no door. Ignis supposes it passes as a bedroom of sorts, since there’s some furniture in here, including a small bed.

At least there’s still a view of the stars overhead. Even if they do make Ignis feel isolated and trapped. He can’t imagine what Noctis must feel.

He looks at Noctis, who looks back at him expectantly. “All yours,” he says. “Souls need sleep too.”

“And yourself? Do you sleep?” Ignis knows he’s asked this before, and had gotten no reply.

Noctis smiles thinly, like he remembers. “Nope. Can’t.”

“But you sleep all the time,” Ignis says before he can help himself.

“Don’t confuse me with your prince,” Noctis says, sharp and cutting, and oh, Ignis can hear the resentment in his voice.

_You are the same!_ Ignis wants to say. _You are him!_ he wants to shout. But he doesn’t. “Why can’t you sleep?” he asks instead.

“I tend to fall into really long slumbers. It’s stupid but it makes my memories fade faster. Found out the hard way. Not very nice.” Noctis sniffs.

“Surely a nap—?”

“I’m not tired,” Noctis says shortly. “Don’t fight me on this.”

Ignis takes in his rigid posture and defiant gaze, sighs resignedly, and nods. He’s too tired to fight. He glances around. There is a mirrored dressing table with a short stool, a high-backed chair with a footrest, an empty shelf. The dressing table is made of wood and Ignis can see carvings indented all over the sides, all over the drawers. Where had all this furniture come from? Are they the belongings of another god? Are they the permanent fixtures of Valhalla?

He walks over to the mirror and takes a moment to look at himself. For an odd moment, just a split second of certainty, he expects ugly, terrible scars reflected back at him, but every inch of his skin is unmarred. His eyes, a shade above viridian, are vivid and undamaged. He wonders about this for a moment, and his mind stings him with a question that makes him turn around to ask Noctis about the scars on his back, but—

Noctis is already leaving the room. “Sleep. You know where to find me when you wake up.”

With that, Noctis is gone.

Ignis shuts his eyes and tries to steady himself. Noctis leaving the room makes him feel unsteady on his feet for a moment. After collecting himself, he opens his eyes and, as though needing something to occupy his mind, he rummages through the drawers in front of him. They are mostly empty, save for some peculiar writing tools, scraps of paper with names that mean nothing to him scribbled on them, a spool with no thread, a broken whistle, small coins of varying metal alloys, precious gemstones, a shattered timepiece.

He turns his gaze up to look at himself in the mirror once more.

“Second chances,” he says to his reflection. “Hard to come by.”

He retires to the bed with one thought.

Noctis needs to get out.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _but we were younger then, and now we're not, and if there was a plan made, then we forgot about it;_ \- [All I Want, Dawn Golden](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SSHz94GxTUY)

When Ignis awakens, he is greeted with nothing but a lonely silence. He cares little for it, makes him think too much of a single night spent on the outskirts of an abandoned city, the air too still, too quiet, save for the soft crackling of a fire. 

He doesn’t remember exactly how he navigates his way back to the hall with the giant chair and the shelf full of books, only that as he stumbles out of the cold bed, he feels a distinct pull of magic and it leads him straight to Noctis.

His eyelids are still heavy when he makes his way across the stone floor of the throne room, but it’s the _way_ he finds Noctis, seated high on the ugly throne itself, that completely wipes the fog of sleep and the dream of an endless night from his mind.

Noctis is flipping through a nondescript book in his hands. He looks puffy-eyed and angry as he goes through the pages, using more force than necessary. He doesn’t register Ignis’ presence, or perhaps doesn’t care that Ignis is climbing the steps that lead to the throne.

Ignis doesn’t recognise the book at first, but its stiff cover makes him think back to when Noctis had told him he had once been blind. Noctis had summoned the book for some sort of confirmation at that moment. It’s the same one, Ignis realises. The same hard cover, the same rounded spine, the same kind of heft to it, the same scuff marks—

“Is that Prompto’s?” Ignis asks, because he can only guess. But no, he’s sure of it.

Noctis’ angry expression melts into something bitter, something heartbreakingly spiteful. He swipes at his face with the back of a hand before wordlessly holding out the book for Ignis to take, even though Ignis is standing several feet away and not anywhere in Noctis’ personal space.

Ignis hesitates for a moment as he closes the distance and reaches out for the heavy-looking book, but Noctis just shoves it into Ignis’ hands like he can’t bear to hold it any longer. And so, Ignis takes it, and steps back, and starts at the beginning.

As he flips through it, he sees familiar faces looking back at him from another world.

It _has_ to be Prompto’s. Of course it’s Prompto’s, and _of course_ it’s how Noctis had known from the start. The words he’d uttered when Ignis fell from the sky and first came into existence—

_“You were blind.”_

He’d said it like the most matter-of-fact thing.

Because Prompto made Noctis _see_.

Ignis looks through them – all of them. Some are blurry and some are so unprofessionally taken that Ignis has to consider them for a long moment before he’s able to make sense of them. Mostly, they are snapshots people and places. Of early mornings packing up a campsite and late nights lazing by a rickety caravan, of Noctis standing in the rain fishing for trout, of Gladio reading a worn paperback in the back of the Regalia next to a bored Noctis, of Iris making a face at the camera for being dragged into taking a selfie with Prompto.

Of Ignis driving through the desert, one hand on the steering wheel and the other holding a can of Ebony. Of Noctis looking like he wants to punch a laughing Gladio in the face. Of Cindy giving Prompto a high five, half of Prompto’s face cut off. Of Ignis looking mildly exasperated while Noctis feeds his chocobo the vegetables off his plate. Of Aranea looking like she wants to smack Prompto’s face out of the way because he’s about to crash the snowmobile they’re on.

There’s a missing photo, between the one of Gladio and Iris playing a game of darts and the one of Cid and Cor frowning at something off camera. He wonders about the missing photo for a moment, but doesn’t comment on it. Perhaps it’s always been missing.

He’s not blind in any of them until he reaches the last few, which are all taken in dim lighting. These ones are mostly devoid of smiles. And when he finally comes to the end of the album, he sees it. There’s a short note scribbled on the inside of the back cover, handwriting a mess.

> _hey Noct,_  
>  _you need this more than I do now_  
>  _promise me you’ll find the rest  
>  _ _I know it’ll be hard as hell but if anyone can do it IT’S YOU!!!_
> 
> _meet me on the other side._

The message isn’t signed, but there’s no mistaking who it’s from.

Ignis finally understands. He understands Noctis’ anger. It _isn’t_ anger. It’s frustration. It’s sadness and frustration. And it’s always been inside of him. Only now, Noctis has finally decided to show it, to let his veneer of apathy and charming indifference bleed away. 

He shuts the album and hands it back to Noctis, who takes it and settles it on his lap and breathes in deeply like the weight of the universe is crushing him. Ignis opens his mouth to say something, but before he can utter the words of comfort that now crowd the tip of his tongue, Noctis exhales sharply and speaks.

“After every soul,” Noctis says, his voice surprisingly calm, “after I’d ferry each one, I would look at this stupid thing. And it’s been hundreds and thousands, Ignis. There hasn’t been a _single_ _familiar face_. I’ve memorised them all, you know? This book is all I have. I don’t remember names anymore, I don’t remember voices, I don’t know the _stories_. But the _faces_. So many came, so many went. Not a single one from his book except Prompto.” Here, Noctis sucks in a breath and tightens his hold on the book like if he doesn’t anchor it, he might just throw it hard across the room instead. “And then— _you_. When you showed up— _you_ , Ignis. You _can’t_ imagine the relief I felt. I don’t even know why I felt it. I mean, maybe I do. Maybe… maybe it’s what you’re supposed to feel when you wait for so long and something finally happens. But, Ignis, I was so fucking scared. The moment I saw you in my chair, you couldn’t see it, but I was fucking _terrified_.”

Ignis tries to ignore the quiet hysteria in Noctis’ voice.

“All I have,” Noctis whispers, “is a promise to keep and a book of someone else’s memories to help me out. But the promise is older than a thousand lifetimes and… you. You terrify me, Ignis. You have no idea.”

Ignis makes a small noise at the back of his throat that he swallows down. “I think I do, Noct. You’re scared because I would finally remember, but you would not, and… it would be unlike the other souls. We knew each other. We have… a shared history. In the end, I’d remember who you were, but you’d just — I’d just move on. Like Prompto. I’d be another Prompto.” 

Noctis looks at Ignis, then down at the book in his lap. It takes an eternity, but when he catches Ignis’ eyes again, there is a different kind of sadness there, one that Ignis doesn’t recognise. It drives Ignis to say something he’s been meaning to say this whole time. “You don’t belong here, Noctis.”

Noctis blinks. “Neither do you,” he says after a moment.

Ignis considers the throne that Noctis is seated on, thinks about white doors shining bright against dark marble walls, thinks about all of the memories he’s watched with the God of Death standing right next to him, thinks about the boy with his halo of black hair and eyes the colour of stormwater. He reaches out and takes Noctis’ hand. “Put the book back. Let’s go.”

Noctis looks like he wants to say something, but Ignis gives a gentle tug and Noctis yields. The book vanishes into the ether and Noctis follows Ignis to the hallway of doors.

 

“What’s this one about?” Noctis asks him. His tone is hushed, because it’s quiet here.

A young boy sits on his bed. He is alone in the room. Every inch of the large desk in the corner is littered with books and notes.

Ignis smiles a little. “His Royal Highness has just given me a gift,” he answers.

After a moment, the young boy takes a deep breath and holds his hand out. For a second, nothing happens. Then, there’s a flash of light and a small round object sits in the palm of his hand. The boy smiles victoriously.

“Oh,” Noctis’ voice is curious. “The coin?”

Ignis laughs. “Not the coin.”

“Oh.”

“I was the first – and for a very long time the _only_ – person you decided you could trust to receive your power after you learned how to use it,” Ignis explains patiently. 

Noctis doesn’t say anything.

“After school, you’d practice with me for hours.”

The boy on the bed places the coin on his bedside table and reaches for his phone excitedly.

Ignis watches Noctis as he observes the boy fire off some message or other about his success at summoning a coin he’d hidden away in the realm of nothingness.

He can see Noctis smiling.

 

“He’s not all bad, you know?” he says, when they leave the memory. “I know you don’t like the prince, but you should give him a chance.” 

Noctis hums. “’Course you’d say that.”

Ignis nods. “Of course I would. And perhaps you might come to realise you have more in common with him than you think.”

Noctis looks away from Ignis and, instead of answering, he points to a door further down the hallway, looming bright and harsh like it wants to sear its existence into the darkest corners of their minds forever. “We can go through this one,” he says.

There’s something like warmth in his voice. Like acknowledgement.

“Yes,” Ignis says, after a moment. “We can.”

 

In this memory, Ignis is injured. Deathly pale, taking short, gulping breaths. The smell of the sea is overpowering and there’s a thick dampness in the air and there are red splotches of blood painted all over the cobblestones and—

It’s nothing he’s ever seen before. But he knows this scene because he’d lived it, hadn’t he? Lived it, but not lived to see it unfold. It's horrifying to see it happen as a bystander. As a ghost. An outsider who can actually witness his own maiming with a painful clarity; a cruel out-of-body experience. And Ignis remembers this: second to losing Noctis to the Marilith, it was the most terrified he’d ever remembered being at that point in his life.

He knows what happened.  
  
This is Altissia, and this is the moment he’d been blinded. It is the moment his whole life had come crashing down around his ears. It is the moment his self-worth deteriorated to nothing but scraps of self-pity and a burning desire to lay eyes on his king again, nothing more.  
  
And so he wonders. Is this a memory that is truly important to him? Isn’t that what Noctis had once told him? That the memories they’ve been visiting are ones that _mean_ something?  
  
Gladio finds him almost minutes after his eyesight is taken, and the man curses and swears and drags his sagging body out of the way of fallen debris and chunks of concrete and sharp iridescent scales ripped from the skin of a wrathful god. 

The sky rains seawater.  
  
It feels like hours later, when they are under cover and dry and safe, when Prompto appears with the limp body of Lunafreya in his arms (Lady Lunafreya, whom Prompto had been so excited to finally meet in person), when Ravus hefts an unconscious Noctis into view, that Ignis understands, now, why this memory is important. This is the moment they'd lost almost everything, but—  
  
This is also the moment when the Last King of Lucis survives the Hydraean.  
  
“Ignis.”  
  
Ignis takes a moment to realise the God of Death is talking to him. His God of Death. His guide and friend and prince and king.  
  
“Noct,” Ignis says, finally, looking away from a half-hysterical Prompto and a worried Gladio and two motionless bodies and his own blood-soaked self.  
  
Noctis’ eyes don’t leave his. “This was my fault,” he says. His voice is like a dying fire.

Ignis can only stare because it’s not something he expects. Up until now, Noctis has never really considered himself one and the same as the Noctis in his memories.  
  
Noctis continues. “I remember none of it. But I’ve seen enough, and I _know_ —”  
  
“You lived,” Ignis interrupts, “that was all that mattered. And this happened a very long time ago. In light of things, _none_ of this matters now.”  
  
“Still. I wish I could remember.”  
  
“I…” Ignis wants to say he wishes it too, but he knows to say it would be to lie. No one should remember this. Noctis should never remember this, because Ignis knows he’d blamed himself for this moment endlessly, and he had suffered in silence. Instead, he puts a hand on Noctis’ shoulder and says, “There was plenty of heartache and pain, but clearly, this memory is important to me. Do you want to know why?”  
  
Noctis gives Ignis a devastatingly unsure look. He shakes his head no.  
  
“It’s because you lived to see another day. And it’s because you knew how to push onwards, despite every single injustice thrown your way.”

 

Carbuncle awaits them just outside the door. It scampers up to Noctis, mewls demandingly, and nudges his knees with the side of its face. Noctis picks the creature up and gives it a _look_.

“You’re not supposed to be here,” he says. “This is Iggy’s space. How’d you even get in?” 

Ignis is confused.

“He’s tied to Valhalla,” Noctis mutters, “He’s never entered memory lanes before.”

Ignis ponders the way Carbuncle snuggles up in Noctis’ arms and noses at the underside of his neck like it wants Noctis to know that it’s _there_. “I think that he looks like he belongs exactly where he is right now.”

Noctis frowns. “Too cryptic, Iggy. I think you should stop being so cryptic.”

Ignis sighs. “I’ll try my best.”

“Yeah, do that,” Noctis says and hugs Carbuncle to his chest. It squirms a little. “Don’t, Car, or I’ll drop you.”

Carbuncle makes a noise that Ignis thinks means “you will _never_ drop me”. He grins.

They return to the throne room with the little creature and Noctis deposits it on a summoned beanbag. It stretches and curls into a ball. 

Ignis thinks about the beanbag for a moment. Thinks about Noctis’ magic and the fact that he still has it. Perhaps he could… ah, but it might not even work.

“Noct. I’d like to try something.”

Noctis makes a face. “That sounds so ominous.”

“It’s nothing _too_ ominous, I assure you.”  
  
“Okay. I mean. I guess. Just don’t try to break anything.”

Ignis narrows his eyes at Noctis, weighing his words carefully. Then, he reaches out for Noctis’ magic. He knows he shouldn't be doing this, not without Noctis’ clear permission, which he doesn’t have right this moment. But this is different. Noctis doesn't quite seem to know how this works, not really. But Ignis does, so he reaches out, searches, stretches the muscles of his mind for a moment, and, once he's found what he's looking for, he _pulls_. He pulls as gently as he can, and for a moment, he thinks it won’t happen. Can't happen.

And then it _does_. 

He doesn't miss the way Noctis shivers, the way his face pales, like Ignis has touched a very core part of him. In a way, he has.  

Through sheer muscle memory, Ignis manages to wrench a dagger straight out of an untouched part of Noctis’ Arsenal. It’s a staggering feeling, to find he can still do this, and he immediately drops the heavy blade to the ground, unused to holding it.

The metal hits the stone floor with a clang that rings so loud it makes the air tremble. The silence that follows is absolute.

“It took me a very long time to do that,” Noctis says in a quiet voice. “Make things just appear, I mean.”

Ignis reaches down to pick up the dagger. It feels cold and destructive in his hand. He doesn’t know if he likes it.

“Took even longer to figure out how to make stuff go away. Some stuff refused to disappear again. So I left them in that drawer.” 

Ignis recalls the items in the drawer, the strange coins and broken bits and bobs. Now that he thinks about it, they are not all unfamiliar trinkets. The thought makes him smile. He loosens his fingers and the dagger turns to shards of light and nothingness. 

Noctis snorts. “Figures you’d be able to do it now. Showoff.”

“On occasion, yes,” Ignis admits good-naturedly. “I assume Prompto had been the one to teach you how.”

Noctis nods. “At least it's something that's stuck. I can’t really remember his voice or any of the conversations we’ve had, but yeah, he taught me, after he finally figured it out himself. I still kinda suck at it though, even after practicing like crazy. There’s probably a lot of stuff hidden somewhere I’d never find.”

Ignis finds himself thinking of Prompto. Of his photo album. “You recognised me the moment I got here.”

“Yeah.”

“Very clever of him to leave his collection of photos behind. It must have helped.”

Noctis drops his gaze. “It… made it easier for me to keep the promise. But. You have to understand. It’s been a long time. I started to resent it. To resent meeting him. To resent seeing things through his eyes and not _understanding_. I started to hate that he ever showed up here.”

“He’d be upset if he knew.”

“Yeah. Yeah, I know.”

“Do you resent me being here?”

“I…” Noctis avoids Ignis’ gaze. “I don't know.”

Ignis can’t read the emotion in Noctis’ voice, so he takes a breath. “If you can’t leave Valhalla,” he says quietly, with all the conviction a lifetime of devotion can afford, “I will stay.”

Noctis finally looks up. His expression is torn. It holds the same strange sadness that Ignis doesn’t recognise, like Noctis is keeping a secret Ignis cannot understand. “I was afraid you’d say that,” he says sadly. “But of course you would. You’re Ignis Scientia.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> episode ignis might throw a wrench in this chapter, once it's released. but let's just say altissia panned out this way. i mean, i like the idea of ravus being _there_ for the guys, for once. y'know?


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _then i heard your heart beating, you were in the darkness too. so i stayed in the darkness with you;_ \- [Cosmic Love, Florence + The Machine](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2EIeUlvHAiM)

_Blood_ , Ignis thinks to himself cynically, _seems to be a recurring theme in most of my memories_. The truth hits him as he watches the scene before him play out, and at least this one is far more enjoyable than the last. In fact, Ignis knows this memory is a hundred times more precious, because this is when he’s twelve and Noctis is ten, and it is this exact moment that Noctis figures out how to warp himself a fair distance without having to use a physical object to carry him. Considering how badly it goes, Ignis figures that this is the first time the prince has actually attempted it unsupervised.

“ _Shit_ ,” is what ten-year-old Noctis says in a tone that is two parts dread and one part horror as he collides straight into Ignis along the narrow passageway leading to the chambers of the royal family. The prince had started at a dead run, and while he looks scrawny, the momentum carries him, leaves a trail of shimmering blue magic, and he’s heavy enough to knock all the wind out of Ignis’ lungs.

“Highness!” young Ignis gasps as they both hit the ground in a tangle of limbs, crystalline sparks dancing around them until they fade to nothing. His tone is all pain, with a dash of disbelief.

“Sorry, sorry! It – it just slipped out!” the prince stutters in panic, even as blood starts streaming out of his nose and dripping onto the floor at an alarming rate. “I won’t say it again, I promise!”

The terrified little Ignis shakes his head hastily and scrambles to his feet. “I don't care about that,” he says, wincing and clutching at his side with one hand. With the other, he grabs Noctis by the forearm and helps him to stand. “Are – are you al—”

“What’s going on here?” a voice calls out from the other end of the hallway, deep and wary, and moments later, a concerned King Regis steps into view and stops to survey the damage. “You’re _bleeding_ ,” he says, once he spots Noctis steadying himself on his feet. The king’s voice is, at least, calm and composed, which doesn’t warrant Noctis’ impending distress.

“It’s not Iggy’s fault!” the prince yells instantly. A lot of blood goes into his mouth.

King Regis visibly flinches at Noctis’ loud admission. “Noctis, please explain. What have you done to your nose?”

“Nothing! I mean. I tried to do the _thing_ , and I didn’t mean to, I really didn’t! But it happened really fast and I couldn’t _stop_ ,” Noctis wails, and then turns to look at Ignis with the most miserable expression, blood still pouring out of his nostrils and staining his teeth red. “M’sorry, I didn’t mean to crash into you.” He looks back up into the bewildered face of his father. “Please don’t fire Iggy!”

King Regis blinks in surprise at the outburst and he takes a cautious step forward. He fishes a silk handkerchief – black and silver and probably rather expensive - out of his pocket and very carefully kneels down in front of his son. Noctis has a very defiant pout on his face. “You’re lucky I always carry around one of these,” the king says as he starts wiping the blood off Noctis’ face with deliberate, careful strokes.

“Dad…” The prince still sounds desperate.

King Regis chuckles. “My dear Noctis. Why would I want to fire young Ignis? I would choose no other companion to remain at your side. In fact, I would be the worst father on Eos if I decided to—.” 

“Dad!”

King Regis sighs at Noctis’ impatience. “I am _not_ going to fire him, son. Now, I want you to hold this and pinch the bridge of—”

“ _Promise me._ ”

“—your nose. Yes, Noctis, I promise.”

“ _Good_.” Noctis does as he’s told. “You really can’t fire him anyway, he’s my friend. You’d be a really terrible dad if you went and did that.”

King Regis lets out a rather helpless laugh and looks over at Ignis like he doesn’t know how to put up with his son. “I am more concerned about the possibility that our sensible little Ignis here would no longer want to have anything to do with a clumsy and careless prince such as yourself. Noctis, I have never come across anyone lacking in so much grace!” 

Noctis stares at his father with an expression of dawning dismay. “But. That’s not fair.” He shoots an apprehensive look towards Ignis, who doesn't look very comfortable himself. “Is that true? Maybe I really _am_ super bad at this. You probably don’t want to play with me anymore. I hurt you.”

“Your Highness, that’s not—”

“I’m sorry, Iggy,” Noctis rambles on, and his expression is so solemn, yet so soft and shy and earnest. “I’ll never hurt you again. I promise I’ll get better at the… the warping thing.”

“Ah, um,” a flustered twelve-year-old Ignis says inarticulately, “maybe His Majesty, ah, your father, uh… the – the King can teach you how to use your powers the right way. Is… is that right, Your Majesty?”

King Regis doesn’t laugh at Ignis’ tongue-tied words, only regards the young boy with a quiet contemplation before nodding just once. “Of course. It would be remiss of me not to provide Noctis with all of the knowledge he needs to understand the magic that lives inside him.” Then, he looks gravely back at his son. “Your powers will grow, Noctis. They will grow very strong. And I will be with you every step of the way to show you how to control them. But, for now… those powers can wait. The crystal can wait.” King Regis shares a small smile with the both of them from where he kneels. It is a sad and painful smile, one that Ignis remembers thinking about for days. “Don’t grow up too soon, children.”

 

The chill is, as always, incredibly jarring to Ignis when they return to Valhalla. It tastes like frost on his tongue; it feels like an unseen enchantment shrouding the entirety of the silent ruins. Ignis imagines a billion white diamonds strewn across a field of snow, and he shakes his head to wipe the vision from his mind.

Carbuncle is still there, in the throne room, when they come back from the memory of a bloodied nose and almost-broken ribs and a sad King Regis. The creature makes an intriguingly happy noise and darts towards them like they’d been gone a lifetime. It scrambles up Noctis’ legs, climbs his torso, and finally sits itself on his shoulder, bushy tail curling around the back of Noctis’ neck.

“Whoa, okay.” Noctis flails a little, scrunches his nose in displeasure.

Ignis knows Noctis is ticklish. Had been, anyway.

Carbuncle sticks its tongue in Noctis’ ear and Noctis yelps, swipes dramatically at its invading snout. “Hey you, stop. You _know_ I’m ticklish.”

Ignis smirks a little. Some things never change. “I believe Prince Noctis once struck someone in the face – with an excessive amount of force if I recall correctly – because he didn’t appreciate their attempt to leave him in a giggling heap.”

Noctis rolls his eyes. “Bet it was Gladio.”

Ignis shrugs and smiles a little. “Who knows? I _do_ remember a broken nose being the end result.”

Noctis frowns at this. Ignis knows his thoughts have probably wandered to the last memory they’d seen. “Ignis,” he starts, then sighs softly and pats Carbuncle on the head absently. It pushes its little nose against his palm like it wants Noctis to continue talking.

Ignis is not so impatient. If there’s anything his time spent in Noctis’ company has taught him, it’s that patience helps. “Any time you’re ready, Noct.”

“Uh,” Noctis says hesitantly, and Ignis knows Noctis is choosing his next words carefully. “You know,” he finally says, “Dad looked like a cool guy. Did you see his cape? Real badass.”

It’s such a surprising thing to declare that Ignis almost thinks he’s imagined Noctis saying it. He can’t help the laugh that bubbles up his throat. “King Regis always did look imposing in royal black. And yes, he was quite the ‘badass’, as it were. His magic was unparalleled in all of Eos.”

“Did we get along?”

“Not always, but you loved each other.”

“He loved you too,” Noctis says instantly.

Ignis certainly doesn’t expect the assertion. Noctis is full of surprises.

“The way he looked at you,” Noctis explains, and he sounds confident. As confident as he’d been when he’d told Ignis the events in Altissia had been his fault. “He loved you too.”

Ignis considers the sincerity that he reads in Noctis’ expression and nods. “Your father loved a great many people. He was a compassionate king.”

Noctis looks away and doesn’t say anything for a while. There's a calmness in the air surrounding them, and when he finally speaks up, he gives Ignis a smile. “Thanks, Iggy.”

It’s an appreciative smile, and Ignis knows exactly what Noctis is thanking him for.

“Like I said, Noct, any time you’re ready.”

 

They decide to spend a moment in the throne room. Carbuncle wanders off to some other part of the ruins and Noctis doesn’t bother going after the fickle creature. Ignis no longer believes Noctis’ initial speculation that Carbuncle is possibly a visiting god from Eos.

It’s a simple silence between them, though Ignis knows Noctis is now past his stage of obscure non-answers and will perhaps not mind a proper conversation. But the peace is easy and it feels like it is needed. It feels like something _Noctis_ needs.

When Ignis starts summoning more items out of the ether to settle his curiosity on what he can still find, Noctis watches him in fascination. But the God of Death doesn’t ask questions. He doesn’t ask about the sharp blades, the cooking utensils, the recipe books, all of which Ignis piles up on the stone floor of the throne room.

Each and every time Ignis materialises something, pulls something away from the space that is inherently all _Noctis’_ , he wonders if Noctis feels it. Judging by the way Noctis’ breath hitches every time Ignis reaches out for something, it is probably the case. He tries not to think too hard about it - he sifts through his memories and doesn’t recall a single instance where the prince had brought up any discomfort from his magic being invoked by others.

After Ignis vanishes everything in the random pile of objects he’d accumulated, he decides to try something else. Something potentially dangerous. Or incredible. Or both.

Elemental magic is a tricky thing, but it’s something he remembers being well-versed in after Prince Noctis had given him all the freedom to steal straight from his reservoir of power without the need for permission. Elementia is something he remembers how to conjure with a frightening kind of clarity. The cold is getting a little too dreary for him anyway. So, with very little hesitation, he flicks his wrists and draws heat from the strong aura he feels wrapping around him.

Fire snaps to life and it feels entirely alive; it feels like he’s channeling something ancient and very, very powerful.

The God of Death immediately crumples to the ground and the flames die out in an instant.

_“Noct!”_ Ignis stops breathing, drops to Noctis’ side immediately and, _gods_ — _Noctis_.

Noctis is so impossibly pale that in this single terrifying moment, he reminds Ignis of the moon, of all the cold stars in the sky, of a field of snow covered in diamonds.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> regis wouldn't really have shown up in prom's "memories" (the photo album), so noctis wouldn't have been familiar with his face. but, uh, he warmed up to the idea of his badass dad pretty quick.


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _comin’ like a hurricane, i take it in real slow_  
>  _the world is spinning like a weathervane, fragile and composed_  
>  _though i am breaking down again, i am aching now to let you in;_  
>  \- [Hurricane, Fleurie](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NSDDdh2IIpY)

“ _Fuck_ ,” Noctis says, and Ignis almost screams his relief that Noctis is at least still capable of swearing.

Noctis is _okay_.

But he looks weak. And as the god tries to pull himself upright, tries to actually _stand_ , he tilts sideways and hastily abandons the idea in order to sit himself back down. He winces and glares a little at Ignis. “Warn a guy when you try something like that, holy shit.”

He sounds more bewildered than cross. Ignis has to will his whole body to stop shaking before he can say anything. “I will never attempt it again,” he says, and he means it. 

“Yeah, sounds like a good idea.” Noctis swallows and takes a breath. “And you said _I_ was the reckless one,” he mutters and splays a hand against the marble floor like he means to ground himself. “ _Wow_ , that felt _really_ weird. And, I dunno,” Noctis pats at his chest experimentally, “really stupidly hot.” He frowns down at himself. “I feel, uh…”

Ignis wants to reach out and touch Noctis, but he’s too afraid the contact might cause further harm. He’s done enough. “Are you all right?”

Noctis tries to stand again, though Ignis just wants him to _stay put_. He manages to remain on his feet this time, but he looks completely winded. “Yeah. I, um—” Noctis tries to take a small step forward, sways dangerously, and Ignis has to surge up to steady him with quick hands. “Damn,” he slurs, slumping against Ignis for support.

Ignis has to wrap an arm around his lower back to keep him upright.

“Don’t move,” Ignis says. “Stop moving.”

“Right,” Noctis agrees, and lets Ignis support most of his weight. “That took a lot out of me. I’d really like to…” His voice trails off; he sounds almost distracted. He blinks a few times like he can’t focus. “Okay, this is gonna sound _really_ dumb, but I am fucking exhausted. I could fall asleep right here.”

Ignis can’t quite identify the feeling that washes over him like a wave, but it strikes him like a strange sort of déjà vu. _Of course he’s exhausted,_ he berates himself.

He finally understands what he’s done. And he feels like an idiot.

Noctis hasn’t had anyone use his magic like this before, hasn’t felt what it’s like to let somebody else in. Not in a thousand lifetimes. And the exertion makes him weak and drowsy. Using magic had _always_ taken a toll on Noctis as a child. And right now, with his very limited grasp of the cosmic reservoir of untapped power residing in him, Noctis is no different to his ten-year-old self learning the ropes for the first time. To make everything a hundred times worse, Ignis had always taken the magic of the royal bloodline straight from Noctis’ reserves, as though the gift were his own.

An unusual arrangement.

It had been Noctis’ stubborn idea in the first place.

Noctis has had no one drawing his magic for a near millennia. And Ignis had drawn plenty.

“You probably need a nap,” he says finally, pulling himself out of his thoughts.

Noctis’ frame sags a little. “How’d you figure?” he grumbles.

“Trust me.”

Noctis frowns and looks a little put out for a moment, and then he yawns twice before he can get any words out of his mouth. “Mm yeah, okay,” he concedes, eyes watering. He presses himself tightly against Ignis’ ribcage. “A short one wouldn’t hurt. Just don’t… let me sleep too long. A thousand years of shuteye isn’t on my list of things to do right now. Or ever.”

Ignis nods. There’s something in Noctis’ expression that makes Ignis wonder what Noctis has on that list, exactly.

Ignis swings one of Noctis’ arms over his shoulder to keep him steady. And if, for a single breathless moment, he feels Noctis’ fingers ghosting against his neck in a lingering touch, it's probably just wishful thinking on his part.

 

The God of Death allows Ignis to lead him over to the small bedroom with the mirrored dressing table and armchair and empty shelf. The low-sitting bed looks just as Ignis had left it, empty and miserably bare, save for several sheets of embroidered silk strewn across the flat mattress. At least it’s large and spacious, even if it is sparse.  
  
Ignis is exhausted himself once he manages to manoeuvre Noctis to the bed.  
  
“Thanks,” Noctis mutters, sounding genuinely grateful as Ignis backs away a little. And he’s already shifting himself into a comfortable position, curling on his side and tucking a hand under his head. He looks up at Ignis with bleary eyes and Ignis knows sleep is about to claim him.  
  
So he steps away from the bed and glances around the room.  
  
He’s drawn to the wooden dresser with the mirror and to the odd carvings that run along the coarse surface. He moves over to it, this time more curious about the chiselled words and illustrations he sees engraved into the grain instead of his own reflection. They make up a medley of swirls and rough etchings, some more fanciful than others.  
  
Two short verses, markedly different in its lettering, catch his eye. One is delightfully simple, words carved with a fine tool: 

> _To the successor of the goddess,  
>  The children of Eos follow one path. Send us home. _  
> 

It is signed with nothing but an intricate likeness of a spray of blossoms.

The other message is done in a much rougher hand. _YOU’VE GOT THIS NOCT_ , it announces. Further down, in the same obnoxious lettering, but forcefully underlined several times: _FIND IGGY_.  
  
Ignis stares at the words for a moment like they hold the answer to every mystery in every cosmos. They stare back at him, silent and shouting and secretive.  
  
Ignis glances back towards the bed, expecting to see the God of Death fast asleep. He’s a little surprised to see Noctis still watching him through half-lidded eyes.  
  
“I’ll wake you up in a little bit, Noct,” he says quietly, reassuringly.  
  
Noctis just continues watching Ignis with that unblinking gaze, so Ignis purses his lips and moves over to the plush-looking armchair in the corner of the room. It looks comfortable, and it will more than suffice for a resting spot. He doesn’t expect Noctis to sit up a little when he’s about to settle himself into the chair.

“What are you doing?” Noctis mumbles, and he looks confused and a little uncertain through his haze of sluggishness.

Ignis thinks it’s pretty obvious what he’s doing, but perhaps he’s misinterpreted the question, so he gestures to the chair. “I’ll wait here,” he tells Noctis patiently. “How long should you be asleep?”  
  
Noctis frowns, shakes his head slowly, and pats at the space beside him on the bed. There is enough room for another.

It’s a clear invitation, and Ignis is a little lost for words. He looks hard at Noctis, tries to read his face. Past the exhaustion, it’s shy and soft and earnest, like he’s ten again, when he’d told Ignis he’d try his best to get his warping under control.  
  
“Noctis,” he says. He doesn’t mean for it to sound like a warning, but it does.  
  
Noctis sighs and settles back against the sheets. “Ignis.”  
  
“You don’t know me.”  
  
“That’s a really stupid thing to say.”  
  
Ignis gives him a look. “You shouldn't trust anyone so easily.”  
  
Noctis sighs again. “Believe me, I don’t," he says quietly. “It’s you. I trust you.”  
  
Ignis eyes Noctis, the loneliest being in the universe. A forgotten god surrounded by lost souls, living in a place no one knows exists. A young child who’s seen too much and gained too little. A frustrated boy trying to keep a single promise and not knowing if it can ever be delivered. A grown man who also happens to be Ignis’ oldest friend, who seems to want to throw caution to the wind because it’s just something he _does_.  
  
But that’s exactly it. Noctis will always choose to gamble on something that matters to him.  
  
Ignis thinks about abrupt teenage confessions in a moving car, thinks about a rash dinner invitation, thinks about a graduation ball that happened a thousand years ago. Noctis had latched onto his arm the entire night, and Prompto had found it hilarious, had thought they’d just decided to prank the entire school (“Only Ignis’d agree to something like _that_ ,” he’d joked tactfully, so maybe he’d known anyway). Ignis thinks about eyes filled with hurt and betrayal and disappointment in a dimly lit apartment twenty-eight floors above a glittering city. He thinks about the fight, thinks about the pain he’d caused, once upon a time. The years of regret. Noctis hadn't been fighting against him, Noctis had been fighting _for the both of them_.  
  
Suddenly, the embellished silk sheets seem inviting.  
  
Ignis doesn’t hesitate any further, not like he would have when Noctis had been Prince Noctis. Not like when Ignis had been branded Advisor to the Future King. Here, Ignis can give Noctis what he wants. Ignis can give them both the second chance they need. And it feels right, as he takes Noctis’ hand and climbs into bed, and when Noctis curls himself up against Ignis, Ignis knows this is the first time the God of Death has ever been so vulnerable and exposed to anyone else. It shows in the nervous energy Ignis can feel radiating from him.  
  
“You’re warm,” Noctis says softly, inhaling deeply and shifting closer.

Ignis feels his world shift. Feels the way everything falls away. Nothing else matters in this moment but Noctis.  
  
“I’m sorry,” Ignis says and wraps an arm around Noctis. “I hurt you,” he whispers against his forehead. “I’ll never hurt you again.”  
  
Ignis isn’t just apologising for the throne room.  
  
“Stealing my lines,” Noctis huffs. “Nice, Iggy.”  
  
Ignis smiles at how dreamy and far away he sounds, smiles at the mild petulance he detects. “You are exactly like him,” he murmurs into Noctis’ hair. He thinks about the Noctis he grew up with, so long ago now. Thinks about the Noctis right here, next to him. “You are him. But you don’t know him. You must hate that.”  
  
Noctis doesn’t respond, and Ignis thinks he’s finally drifted off. But he’s wrong.  
  
“It’s a little stupid, to hate yourself.” Noctis’ voice is sleep-slurred. “I don’t hate myself.”  
  
Ignis has to bite his tongue to stop himself from smiling.

Noctis finally falls into a deep slumber. He feels the tension slip away. Feels the hum of magic around them, ever ebbing and flowing, turn into a calm sea.  
  
It feels like home. 

Ignis shuts his eyes, tries to cocoon himself in the lull of the magic, to drown himself in the tranquil ocean of Noctis’ achingly familiar aura.  
  
  
He doesn’t know how long he stays by Noctis’ side, but it doesn’t feel long enough when he jolts awake a moment later and tries to quell the shiver that runs up his spine, tries to fight the vision of ice and snow. 

Ignis knows this feeling, now. He’s known it for a while.

The power of another is calling him.

With a slow reluctance, he untangles himself from Noctis.  
  
  
He finds Gentiana standing in the middle of the throne room. Her layers of black look like they bleed into the grey stone all around her. She is the opposite of a diamond in the middle of a field of snow. But Ignis knows better. The woman is a blizzard and a squall. She is as much a god as his Noctis is, if not more so.  
  
Her expression hides secrets. So many of them.  
  
Ignis approaches her, guarded yet unafraid. He has questions. He wants answers.

“Our Deathkeeper is asleep,” is what she says in greeting.

“And here you are,” Ignis responds in kind.

“Here I am,” Gentiana agrees. She gives him an expectant nod. “And you have come to see me.”

“Is this customary? Do you seek audiences with many of Noctis’ charges?”

“You are the first. The first under this certain Deathkeeper.”

“Your interest in me is quite unexpected.”

“I am here to illuminate the way,” Gentiana says simply. “It is that I sense you have something to ask.”  
  
There is nothing but a neutral smile for Ignis to go off, so Ignis just nods and speaks his mind in a way that would probably be considered impolite and blunt. “Do all gods have souls?”  
  
Gentiana’s expression does not change. “Is that truly the question you wish to ask, whether us Ancients carry souls to be passed? You might consider another instead.”

Ignis scowls. “Does _Noctis_ have a soul? Can he ascend to the next world like the rest of us?”  
  
She nods. “Yes. He has a soul. A very special one. It is why he was chosen to succeed the last Goddess of Death. Deathkeepers past have all been touched by the breath of the Ancients. He can ascend. He _must_. I will see it done.”  
  
Ignis stays silent for a moment. Noctis has already told him once that Deathkeepers are not eternal. And now Ignis _knows_ \- Noctis can move on. Just like him, just like Prompto. “Why you?” Ignis asks. “Do the other gods share the same sentiment?”

“I may be one of the Astrals, but my siblings and I are only one small part of a greater Order. There are other Ancients much like us.”  
  
“Yes. I was told of other worlds and other gods. This doesn’t explain why you are here. He says you visit most often.”  
  
“I gave my Lady my word to aid the Last King. And aid him I will, even unto death and the Beyond. He may no longer recognise my kind nor I, but it changes nothing.”  
  
Ignis is surprised by the answer. “The Lady Lunafreya. Was she... was she the previous Deathkeeper?”  
  
“Nay. But we have crossed paths here. She has moved on. Long before our King took his new throne.”  
  
Ignis thinks of the blossoms carved into the dresser and wonders for a moment.  
  
“My brothers and sister may find it inconsequential, foolish even, to continue this tie with the Deathkeeper,” Gentiana continues. “He is, after all, no longer tied to Eos. One might call me sentimental. I still uphold promises to my Lady.”

Ignis had never quite understood (and perhaps never _will_ understand) the loyalty of the Astrals, the communion between Oracle and god. Perhaps Gentiana isn’t quite the same as her siblings. “If Noctis has a soul,” Ignis says evenly, “if he can move on, what must he do to escape this prison?”  
  
A soft breeze blows through the hall, featherlight and forlorn.  
  
“Have you not considered, perhaps, that our King has been able to do just that for quite some time?”  
  
Ignis stares at Gentiana for a long, long moment. “Then… why hasn’t he?”  
  
She smiles sadly. “Whether he is able to and whether he wishes it to happen are two vastly different things. Our King is selfless and, above all, he keeps his promises.”  
  
“He…” Ignis frowns as the truth dawns on him. “Of course. I understand.”

Ignis understands perfectly. His heart sinks a little, because he now realises his God of Death has willingly tied himself to Valhalla, has chosen to remain at the mercy of eons of unfamiliar ghosts and solitude.

Of course, he expects nothing less from Noctis.  
  
“I have been watching over him for a time, child. He is in good hands.”  
  
Ignis considers, for a moment, the omnipresent chill in the air that blankets the ruins, that sinks deep into the stone walls, that mingles with the still atmosphere like a numbing shroud. “I have no doubt,” he tells her sincerely. “You truly still consider him the King of Kings.”  
  
Gentiana inclines her head. “I keep my word. He is, as my Lady had once been, a true Child of Eos. And I am, as I have always been, the same.”  
  
Ignis nods, and he hesitates as he considers his next words carefully. “Why do you choose this form?”  
  
“Why indeed!” Gentiana actually laughs, low and resonant. “Perhaps it is the same reason our King would choose the shape of a young boy to greet the souls that knock at his door. A harmless creature with a kind face, not a creature to fear.”  
  
Ignis frowns. “I... have not seen you in your true form, I’m afraid. My eyesight... well, I suppose you know the story. I only know you as you are now. But I recall depictions of the Glacian in historical texts and paintings. They say she is gentle, kind, righteous and, above all, beautiful.”  
  
Gentiana shoots him a look that speaks volumes. “Would you not also say this about your God of Death?”  
  
Ignis doesn’t say what he thinks.  
  
Gentiana smiles knowingly at his silence.  
  
“What is Eos like now?”  
  
The corners of Gentiana's eyes crinkle and amusement is plain in her voice. “As we speak, not a second has passed since your soul has left it.”  
  
“At peace, then,” Ignis says.  
  
“At peace,” the Glacian agrees.

  
  
Ignis returns to the bedroom feeling heavier and than when he had left it. Noctis is still there. He has rolled onto his back in his sleep, looking for all the world like a young prince taking an indulgent nap after a day of traversing the desert roads and forested hills of a distant world. 

It is an oddly wistful thought. 

He decides to let Noctis sleep a little longer.

Ignis climbs back into the bed, lies down carefully, and slots himself next to Noctis. He slowly eases himself onto his side and rests his chin against the crown of Noctis’ head, gently places a hand on Noctis’ chest, over his heart, and falls fast asleep thinking about beautiful gods.

The cold does not bother him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> my beautiful family dog passed away over the weekend. he lived a good 13 years. it was incredibly sad to see him go.


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _lift up your eyes, child_  
>  _lift up your arms, you are home_  
>  _i know you're hurt, child_  
>  _but you can't do this on your own;_  
>  \- [rising, rising; crywolf](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nuLT_qAqTU0)

When Ignis wakes, it takes him a moment to shake off a half-remembered dream of a dead king pinned to a throne and a golden sunrise burning away the horrors of the night. The silk sheets have shifted, and Ignis can tell that Noctis is wide awake next to him.

Blinking the sleep out of his eyes, he pushes himself up into a sitting position and—

the one thing Ignis doesn't expect to see is Noctis hunched over and crying. 

His first immediate thought is that Noctis has had a nightmare. But he knows that’s not it. Noctis is holding something in his hands. It’s flat and small and rectangular in shape. A piece of paper—no, a photograph. It depicts something enchanting. Dark silhouettes and a silver moon and a gleaming ocean. And Ignis _knows_ it’s the single missing photograph from Prompto’s album. He sees it, and he sees the splotches of half-dried tears all over it, and it makes Ignis’ breath catch in his throat. 

It’s a photograph he cannot recall Prompto ever taking. Then again, Prompto had, on many occasions, proven discreet when taking photos of things he’d rather not share. 

He can’t see Noctis’ expression, but he can see shaking fingers and he can feel the wavering caress of fragile magic, lost and reaching out for something, _someone_ , to hold onto. Ignis touches him gently on the knee and Noctis doesn’t startle, just straightens his back and leans into Ignis a little, presses the side of his face into Ignis’ shoulder.

He feels more than hears the deep breath Noctis takes. And then Noctis is speaking, voice soft and low. “I’ll tell you a secret, Ignis. And maybe you already know it, but I’ll tell you because you need to know _why_.”

Ignis glances at the photograph one more time and doesn’t trust himself to say anything.

“I am the God of Death,” Noctis says, and it all comes in a rush, “but I could’ve passed the mantle a long time ago. I still can. I can leave _right now_. I can just name a successor and get up and go. Go find a new world, go find that one world I’ve been ferrying all Eos-born souls to. My work here is already done, I’ve ferried enough, I don’t have to do it anymore. The lady in— Gentiana told me a very long time ago I could go, and she _keeps on telling me_ in her roundabout way. The only thing stopping me is—”

“Prompto,” Ignis says gently, “I know.”

Noctis licks at his lips, brings a hand up to wipe away the wetness trailing down his cheeks. “Prompto, yeah. He made me realise I couldn’t _stop_ being the God of Death. Not until I found everyone. He knew I was ferrying souls to specific destinations – Ivalice-born to Spira, Grymoire-born to Pulse – so at least they’d have a chance to find each other when they are born again. You saw it—” Noctis gestures towards the dresser with one hand; _The children of Eos follow one path. Send us home._ “It was always a rule I followed.”

“And Prompto had an epiphany,” Ignis surmises, tilting his head to look at Noctis.

Noctis avoids Ignis’ gaze. “I didn’t understand him at first, I only had the smallest fraction of my memories thanks to him. Who the hell was Gladiolus and who the hell was Ignis, you know? Why would they be important? Friends? What did that even _mean_? Gods don’t have _friends_.” And Noctis’ voice is as sharp as broken glass, and just as fragile. Brittle enough to shatter again and again and destroy Ignis’ heart, because Ignis knows that Noctis has just come to the realisation that he has lost _so much_ , has just realised he might not ever get _anything_ back. It’s in the way Noctis’ shoulders shake, the way his tears now fall freely once more.

“He kept saying I needed to wait, to keep waiting. And then he begged me to wait for _Ignis Scientia_ because then I’d _understand_.” Noctis is crying so much and Ignis wants to cradle him in his arms and stop the shaking, but Noctis keeps talking. “I promised him,” he says, and he’s pushing the photograph into Ignis hands. “And then you came, and _then_.” Noctis’ voice is breathless. “I understand now. I understand why it had to be you. And why I have to do this.”

Ignis takes a proper look at the picture. It’s as clear as a picture taken in the dead of night can be, with nothing but stars and moonlight and the ghostly reflection from the sea to illuminate two figures in the dark.

Ignis can almost taste the salty breeze of Cape Caem. It’s an image frozen in time, of the both of them standing on the edge of the cliff and sharing their second _(their last)_ kiss. It’s artfully taken from one of the second-floor windows of the house, and Ignis remembers now, the creaking floorboards and distracting noises cutting through the night.

It’s a window to a different world, but Ignis has _lived_ this picture, and he remembers the night like it’s seared in his mind. It had been the last time he touched Noctis this way. Altissia killed their future. The prophecy killed his king.

Noctis waits patiently for Ignis to turn the photograph over. And Ignis sees the words scribbled there in Prompto’s quick handwriting.

 

> _His name is Ignis Scientia. I swear you can trust him. He’ll give you everything._

“We were in love,” Noctis says in a small voice, rough but steady.

And this is nothing new to Ignis, not now. But _everything_ is new to Noctis. Everything _will be new_ to Noctis.

“We were in love,” Noctis says again, strong and confident now, and the words send an electric thrill through Ignis’ body, a spark that may as well be a flame - a firestorm. “And Prom was right to make me promise to find you.”

Ignis waits as Noctis pushes away a little to look straight into his eyes. In that split second, Ignis wonders what Noctis sees there, in his expression. Because, gods, he knows exactly what he sees in Noctis’.

“I don't understand a thing about what happened to me on Eos,” Noctis says finally. “All I know is I fell in love with an Ignis Scientia once. And. I think it’s happening again.”

Ignis can hear only truth in Noctis’ voice.

  

Noctis has no more secrets to tell.

 

Noctis leads him back to his memory lane. But before they make their way through the mirror image of the Citadel corridor, Noctis tells him this:

“I found you. I can find everyone.”

And Ignis already knows this and Ignis knows nothing he does will ever sway Noctis’ decision, so he only has one thing to say.

“My place is by your side until your task is complete.”

And Noctis just bites down on his lower lip and doesn’t respond.

  

Upon their return, instead of a white door that confronts them, there is a crystal door that displays Ignis’ name. It is made of what looks to be translucent quartz, lustrous and almost see-through if not for the staccato of shard-like inclusions that fill it and refract shades of pinks and purples and blues across the hallway. It is just as bright and dazzling as any of the white doors they’ve encountered thus far, and so much more beautiful, with intricate lace-like swirls stamped into its gleaming surface.

The door radiates a soft warmth that is nearly irresistible to Ignis. It calls to him, beckons him. It tells him, quiet and commanding, _come inside and see_. Ignis knows that this is the only door remaining, the last door to put him together again. _(But he already feels whole)._

There is a gladness in Noctis’ face as he swings around to look at Ignis. “We’re finally here,” he tells him, exultant and proud about the fact, “the memory that will complete you and your soul.”

“I figured as much,” Ignis says.

“Mm, ever astute,” Noctis says, and Ignis can’t help but smile a little. “The last memory is always the same. It’s always the single most life-changing moment a person goes through.”

If what Noctis says is true, Ignis already knows what his will be; he already knows the exact scene that will unfold on the other side. He’s come this far, after all, to be confident of the one single moment that changed his life. He doesn’t even have to guess. So he turns to Noctis. “And what happens after?”

“After? Your journey will be over. I’ll finally be able to send you to the next world.”

“And when you do, will I remember any of this? Will I remember you?”

“Hard to say. But I doubt it. You’ve lived many lives, but clearly you’re only tied to the last. This one.” Noctis makes a short sweeping gesture that means the corridor they're in. 

Ignis purses his lips. 

“But trust me. It will be okay. Maybe you’ll be reunited with souls you’re familiar with. Souls remember, even if you don't. Maybe you’ll find Prompto. Maybe he’ll find you.”

“A nice thought. But as I’ve said, I’m staying until you decide to leave.”

Noctis makes a frustrated noise that sounds more angry than upset, and it is the first time he’s shown anything other than an endless sadness at Ignis’ desire to stay in Valhalla. “I won’t know how long that will _take_ , Ignis. It took me a long time to find you, it might take a hundred million souls to find the rest. This is my job, not yours. I made the promise, not you.”

“Yes,” Ignis says, and he hopes his voice is steady enough to hide the pain he feels for Noctis. “But I don’t think you realise one very important fact, Noct. Prompto was my friend too. And so were the people you have been looking for.”

“You don't understand! You’ll be here _forever_ , Ignis.” It sounds like a warning, a desperate last-ditch attempt to make Ignis see the stupidity in his stubbornness. 

It doesn’t work. Ignis can play the game just as well as Noctis. “And is that supposed to convince me to abandon you?”

“I’m not worth it.” That voice again, sharp and desperate, but Ignis knows it’s not a warning, it never was. It’s a cry for help.

“Do you know how absolutely ridiculous you are, Noct?” Ignis reaches out and takes Noctis’ hand. “Have you not realised?” Ignis asks, and it’s not a question that requires any sort of answer. _You are worth everything,_ echoes plainly down the memory lane they stand in.

Noctis threads his fingers through Ignis’, grips tight, and doesn’t let go, even as Ignis pushes open the door to his final memory.

 

✧ ✧ ✧  

 

This is the memory of two boys meeting for the first time. This is the memory of the first time Ignis Scientia meets Prince Noctis.

“He’s… really mean,” is what six-year-old Ignis Scientia says to his uncle and to an amused King Regis. The prince surely can’t hear him from his corner at the other end of the room, or so Ignis hopes.

They’re in the citadel nursery, and the floors are scattered with colourful toys and scribbled-on books and soft-looking plush animals of varying shapes and sizes.

“You were very mean yourself at his age, Ignis,” his uncle reminds him sternly.

“… Then he’d better grow up to be someone a lot nicer,” Ignis says with a frown that looks more like a pout. “Because I’m nice now.”

“I like your logic, son,” King Regis says with a laugh.

Ignis flushes and all he wants to do is leave the room, but his uncle has other ideas.

“Will you keep Prince Noctis company while the King and I talk?”

Ignis sighs. “Yeah. I guess.”

“Just play nice.”

When the adults leave, Noctis takes this as his cue to run towards Ignis.

“Look,” the little prince says, holding a small yellow toy truck in one hand.

Ignis stares at the toy, then at the three-year-old. “I’m looking,” he says, voice cautious.

Noctis stares back for a while, then breaks into a scowl and lowers his hand. He goes back to his corner and sits by his toy set with the colourful building blocks and the little plastic trucks and cars. Ignis realises belatedly that Noctis had been waiting for him to take the yellow truck.

Ignis moves over to the prince, looks the boy over properly. He sees the baby fat clinging to his cheeks, sees the dark hair falling into his eyes. “You have a flabby face,” he grumbles. “And you need a hair cut.”

Noctis frowns darkly at him. “You,” he says, waving the yellow truck in his direction, “are ugly.”

Ignis looks at him, flabbergasted. “Well, _you’re_ ugly.”

Noctis shrugs and goes back to playing with his toys.

Ignis huffs and watches Noctis for all of five seconds before he decides to sit down next to him.

Noctis immediately holds out the yellow truck again, waves it in front of his face annoyingly. “… Unless you want the blue car,” Noctis says absently, almost deceptively casual. “But that’s _my_ favourite.”

Ignis eyes the blue car sitting just in front of Noctis. It’s a very, very nice blue car, with red flames going across the bonnet and all down the sides. He likes it. He likes it more than the yellow truck.

Noctis watches him like a hawk.

So Ignis takes the truck because it’s the logical thing to do.

He’s startled when Noctis swipes it out of his hands and presses the blue car into his palm a little too forcefully.

Ignis stares at it, then at Noctis.

“I still think you’re ugly,” Noctis declares haughtily. 

“Haven’t changed my mind about _you_ ,” Ignis mutters.

They play together until the adults come back.

(Ignis moves into the Citadel a week before Prince Noctis turns four.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> received the most amazing surprise from my partner, who secretly commissioned the incredibly talented [**kandismon**](http://kandismon.tumblr.com/post/169523406124/a-commission-i-was-allowed-to-draw-for-the-lovely) to draw the _cutest_ scene in this story. so much love to the both of you!


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _i saw you standing in the shadows and your eyes were blue._  
>  _you put your hand out, opened the door,_  
>  _you said "come with me boy, i want to show you something more";_  
>  \- [Dear Fellow Traveler, Sea Wolf](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UUw1e7vvSRY)

When they return to the corridor, the change is immediately obvious. The narrow passageway is empty of doors. There are no entrances to another time and place, just a path leading forward and back. It is an echo of what it had once been, though it still stands like an important reminder of all the truths and sorrows and joys of a past life.

Noctis stands in front of him, back to the wall, a solid presence. There’s colour in his cheeks, a trace of pink, and it’s distracting enough that Ignis has to blink a few times to focus. “Can’t believe I called you ugly,” Noctis is saying to him, and there’s a laugh in his voice and he’s looking at Ignis with eyes full of mirth.

“I believe I returned the favour,” Ignis offers with a smile.

Noctis hums. “We were terrible kids.”

“You grew up to be rather charming,” Ignis tells him truthfully.

“Nah, that was you. I grew up to be a complete nightmare. You were there, didn’t you pay attention? I was an idiot around you.”

“You’ve only seen a fraction of yourself in my memories,” Ignis reminds him.

“Yeah, and you were so fucking amazing to me. I was a little shit.”

Ignis rolls his eyes at the assertion. “Ninety-nine percent of the time, you weren’t.”

“Liar. I was—”

“Ninety-nine percent wonderful, one percent unbearable,” Ignis interjects before Noctis can continue. “Endearingly so,” he adds.

“See?" Noctis accuses, and he’s delightfully flushed. "You’re just a hundred percent _nice_.”

Ignis laughs. “Believe it or not, we’ve had this discussion before.”

And it’s true, Ignis knows it’s true. In a different time, during a stolen moment just before they’d made the journey to the ruined city of Insomnia to bring the dawn back, Noctis had reminisced about his younger years as an intolerable prince.

“I’m that predictable, huh?” Noctis grumbles.

Ignis smiles, and he reaches out, puts a hand on Noctis’ cheek, traces his thumb over the distinct curve of Noctis’ cheekbone, and oh, Noctis always did have striking features. “On the contrary, you are the least predictable person I have ever met. And let us keep it that way.”

Noctis stares unblinkingly into his eyes for a long second that may as well have been an eternity, and then a small flicker of amusement plays over his face. “Wow,” he lets loose a wry, self-mocking sigh, “you even _flirt_ better than I do. I suck.”

“You’re doing remarkably well so far,” Ignis assures him.

Eyes never leaving Ignis’, Noctis gently reaches up and removes Ignis’ hand from his cheek, brings it to his lips, and places a kiss on his knuckles. His gaze has sharpened into something warm and intense. “Ignis,” he says, quiet and gentle, and Ignis feels a white-hot spark run from the back of his hand up through his arm and straight to his chest, “are you sure you want to stay?”

Ignis doesn’t bother hiding what he’s sure is pure bewilderment on his face. And he can’t help but wonder.

Noctis is the right kind of handsome, with his mess of dark hair a wild contrast to porcelain skin and his disarming blue eyes that glint a myriad of other colours when the atmosphere crackles with energy. There’s a certain kind of defiance, appealing in its own way, in the sloping angles of his high cheekbones and the alluringly wry twist of his lips when he makes a retort. But perhaps it’s the touch of loneliness clinging to him that calls out to Ignis, that makes Ignis want to reach out and collect and sweep into a box.

“You know I do, Noct.”

Noctis’ eyes lower, and it’s hard to read his expression now, but Ignis knows he’s wrestling with this – knows he’s trying. Knows that this is, in every way, something new for the God of Death, and no matter what, Noctis has always been fair, and to Noctis, this is far from being fair to Ignis. This is being selfish.

But Ignis _wants_ Noctis to be selfish. 

After a moment, Noctis nods and kisses his hand a second time. “Then stay,” he says. “But remember, you are free to go whenever you want. Your journey here is done. Just say the word and I’ll send you on your way.”

If Ignis had any second thoughts about staying before, they have evaporated completely. And really, in his opinion, Noctis is better at courtship than he thinks. “I will keep that in mind, Noct,” he promises.

“Please do,” Noctis says, and then he blinks and tightens his grasp on Ignis’ hand. “Oh.”

The air of surprise in Noctis’ sudden _oh_ is enough to make Ignis’ brow furrow. Noctis has assumed an expression of confusion, like something is amiss. In fact, he’s frowning a little at the walls around them. “Okay, this is weird,” he mumbles. “This place is still… here.”

Ignis is startled. Had Noctis been so distracted? “Should it not be?”

“Your journey has ended. You no longer have any use of…” Noctis makes a weak gesture. “It should… it should stop existing. I don’t get it. There must be something else here.”

Ignis frowns and thinks about the existence of the only other collection of memories he knows about, still serving a purpose even with its owner gone. Prompto’s memories still exist in Valhalla — Noctis _owns_ them, keeps them _with him_. Has Noctis never realised?

The walls here have always been trying to tell Ignis secrets.

Perhaps the secrets have never been meant for him.

“Shall we see what else we can find?” he asks, and his voice bounces off the polished tiles and carries down the corridor.

He has never seen the God of Death look so apprehensive, even as he nods and falls into step beside Ignis.

 

They don’t have to go very far. The passageway opens up to a large hall, one massive enough that they have to stop to stare.

Ornate and grand, the Citadel throne room is nothing like the throne room of Valhalla, and it is as magnificent as Ignis remembers, perhaps more so, as it sits beneath the vast and timeless abyss of the soulscape overhead. The stairs leading up to the throne are bathed in an alluring light that comes from nowhere and everywhere at once.

A heavy banner hangs just beneath the dais, proudly displaying the words _Noctis Lucis Caelum CXIV_ in sprawling gold embroidery. It’s enough to make something catch fire in Ignis’ veins, but it isn’t the most extraordinary thing about the scene before them.

Upon the golden throne itself sits, much to Ignis’ amazement, a dog with a dusky coat of fur and unusual white markings. It stares expectantly down at them like it’s been waiting for their arrival for an eternity, small ears twitching and bushy tail swinging lazily from side to side.

For a foolish moment, Ignis almost forgets he’s not actually in the Citadel, forgets this is not Insomnia, not Lucis. Not Eos.

Noctis makes a disbelieving noise and Ignis is brought back to the present. “What—”

“ _Umbra_ ,” Ignis says without thinking.

He knows the dog. It _has_ to be Umbra. He doesn’t know why it is here, whether it is a memory, or whether it is actually _physically_  here. He doesn’t know anything about Umbra – their interaction had been minimal. But he thinks maybe this creature _is_ the real Umbra. If Astrals and otherworldly creatures can make their presence known in Valhalla, surely—

“What’s an Umbra?”

Ignis blinks. “The dog,” he says automatically.

“Oh. Well, I was more kind of wondering about the…” Noctis makes a sweeping motion with his hands and Ignis gets his drift.

“Ah, this is the Citadel throne room.”

“The—” Noctis cuts himself off and Ignis knows he’s finally decided to acknowledge the banner with his name on it. “Oh.” Noctis swallows. “Right. But. Uh, there’s a dog in the chair. The, uh, Umbra. Is in the chair.”

Ignis can’t help the fond amusement he feels, despite the devastating nostalgia and absolute _lunatic_ sense of relief that overwhelms him in this moment. “It’s your chair,” he says, and hopes he doesn’t sound as breathless as he feels.

Noctis, absurd boy that he is, calls out: “Hey, Umbra. That’s my chair.” And Ignis stares incredulously at him. _Of course he would._

Umbra makes a snuffling noise like it’s actually fascinated by Noctis’ audacity, but otherwise stays completely still.

“Cute,” Noctis mutters.

“Can’t try that trick with him, it seems. Anyway, you should probably stop calling every throne you see a ‘chair’.”

“You sit in them. They’re just big chairs.”

“All right, Noct. I’ll let you get away with that one. Though I probably shouldn’t, seeing as you’ve lived the life of a prince.”

“That was a very long time ago, but I get your point. What I want to know is, why has your memory lane turned into _this_?”

Noctis sounds so terribly confused that Ignis feels a pang of sympathy for him. Well, almost. Because it’s a question that Ignis believes he knows the answer to, and Noctis has probably guessed it too, but is likely too afraid to say it.

“Do you wish to approach Umbra?” Ignis asks him gently.

“I…” Noctis looks from Ignis to the golden throne, and for a long moment, it seems as if he doesn’t plan on finishing his sentence. Doesn’t plan on saying anything at all. But then he shuffles his feet a little. Like he wants to run. “I can’t. I don’t… I don’t know what’ll happen if I do.”

“Noctis.”

“Can we just…”

Ignis sees the endless hesitation in Noctis’ eyes. The conflict there.

“We can always come back.”

“I don’t—”

“Whenever you’re ready, Noct.”

 

Umbra barks once and whines a little as they leave, makes a yearning sort of sound. Ignis throws an apologetic look over his shoulder as they exit the throne room. Umbra barks again. And again. And then there is only quiet when they cross into Ignis’ memory lane once more.

 

Noctis is painfully silent as they meander through the dark hallway and back to the other throne room. And when they arrive, it is like coming home to ghosts and emptiness and stagnant time. It is too bare and too bleak here. And there’s—

“What the fuck is _going on_?” Noctis almost snarls his words and Ignis has to stop himself from reacting to the sharp flash of pure frustration he feels igniting the air around them. And to be fair, he is just as confused.

This is no longer his memory lane, but there is a white door here. It casts a searing glow across the dusky shadows of the ruins. The lone bookshelf, Ignis realises, is gone, and in its place is this door with no discernible room attached to it. It’s just a single slab of marble standing in the centre of the hall like a beacon. It beckons them to throw it open; it promises to lavish them with something long-forgotten. And as they approach it, they see the words inscribed into the stone.

“Not possible,” Noctis chokes out.

Stark and unembellished and glaring, as though almost _singing_ all of its fierce secrets, the door claims _Ignis Scientia_ on the front. And, directly beneath it, the words _God of Death_ are unmistakeable.

“ _No_ ,” Noctis says, and it sounds like pure denial. “ _What’s going on?_ Fuck. I thought we— I thought your last… _Why_ does it…?” Noctis blinks as though he’s just come to a dreadful realisation; the light from the door casts a ghostly glow across his pale cheeks and illuminates the whites of his eyes. “ _God of Death_ ,” he breathes, reaching out a shaking hand to touch the silver doorknob. “I don’t believe it. I _can’t_.”

“Is this…?” Ignis doesn’t know how to finish his question, doesn’t know if he should end it with _One of mine? One of yours? One of ours?_

“Ignis,” Noctis says, half-frozen with fear, “I once told you… I wasn’t so good at my job, yeah? Completely shit.”

“What do you—”

“And my first few tries were unsuccessful. The souls I picked, they couldn’t move on. I didn’t _do it right_.”

Noctis had said to him he failed the first, the second, the third… all of them had returned to the soulscape to await another chance at moving to a new world.

“I do recall. But, Noctis.”

“ _Fuck_.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Yes. Yes you do.”

Ignis does, of course he does.

But only after he sees it for himself.

 

Instead of pinpricks of quartz and splinters of colour, they are greeted with dark shadows and ugly greys and muted light – a heavy wall of it, a deep nostalgia of it.

They leave the Valhallan throne room only to step right into its reflection, and everything in this empty, wicked playground looks no different. Jarringly so.

The sky here is overcast with a blanket of stars, a chorus of cold light so beautiful and distant and strange; swathes of the soulscape look entirely different to what Ignis has seen before.

Gentiana is here, standing in the middle of the hall, looking like a spectre painted in patience and grace. And directly across from her: a man, eyes tired and sunken, face jaded and shadowed, radiating nothing but pure fear and confusion.

The successor of the Goddess of Death.

“Deathkeeper, I cannot say I am glad to find you here,” Gentiana says, and the chill that sweeps through the hall is a desolate caress.

“Who are you?” The response is uttered rudely, almost in a panic. Noctis’ familiar voice, rough and unsteady and unrehearsed in every way, sends an uncontrollable shiver through Ignis.

Gentiana inclines her head. “Who I am to you depends on who you choose to be, O Deathkeeper.”

“Who am I?”

At this, Gentiana looks sad. “I cannot give a worthy enough answer. But know this, God of Death: you have lost much, but with some luck, you will regain what has been misplaced and perhaps even be rewarded for your efforts.”

“… Do I know you?”

Gentiana smiles a pleased smile. “If you find me familiar at all, Lightbringer, know that I am honoured. And I must thank you, though you will not understand my gratitude. Perhaps with time.”

“What do you need me to do here? Can I… can I go home?”

“You are the Successor, birthed through sacrifice, branded a servant of Valhalla. You are the God of Death. A hard task awaits. But your last had been monumental. I am sure you have the spirit to succeed here. You must take your first step, and it will be one of many. You must choose the first soul you wish to save.”

“Soul.”

“Yes, child.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Give yourself time.”

“Do you have a name?”

“Yes. Many. You need not remember them.”

“Do I…?”

“Noctis,” Gentiana says. “You are Noctis.”

“You said… I need to save my first soul.”

Gentiana lifts her hands to the inky blackness above. “And so you are free to choose.”

It takes the God of Death, his power over the House of Valhalla true and forever omnipotent, only a second to pick the brightest star in the sky. It takes only the blink of an eye for a soul to end up on the throne, slumped like a rag doll.

And Ignis sees the familiar body, and, _of course_.

Even empty of every stitch of memory, Noctis had picked the most familiar presence in the sky as his first soul to save. Because he’d been drawn to it.

“I…” he hears the quiet voice beside him. “I… this—“ Noctis’ voice wavers. “You were my first soul and all I can remember is not knowing what the fuck I was supposed to do. Even with Gentiana’s help, I failed. And—”

Ignis tears his eyes away from the confused stare of the new God of Death _(older, so much older)_ , from the blank and detached expression on his own face, and looks at Noctis. His Noctis who has come so far.

“You’ve ferried how many to the Beyond, now?” Ignis asks, and he’s surprised to find that his voice is calm.

“ _Thousands_ , but—”

“Then it’s all right.”

Noctis looks frightened, like the weight of an infinite number of stars has come crashing down on him. Ignis realises it is this split second that Noctis’ memory of this moment has just hit him in the face. He is not unfamiliar with the feeling.

“Iggy,” Noctis whispers. “Ignis. It was _you_.”

Ignis glances at the scene playing out in front of them, at the new God of Death saying nothing to the figure on the throne and Gentiana looking infinitely sad.

He looks back at Noctis and his heart breaks, but still, he smiles. “Of course it was. You said it yourself, and I believe you now: souls remember, even if you don’t. Of course you’d look for me, Noctis. Of course we’d find each other. We will _always_ find each other.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _almost there._


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _you've got it all, you lost your mind in the sound,_  
>  _there's so much more, you can reclaim your crown._  
>  _you're in control, rid of the monsters inside your head,_  
>  _put all your faults to bed, you can be king again;_  
>  \- [King, Lauren Aquilina](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sZeVx_9au5g)

“So, okay, let’s see. I met you when I was a moody little brat _,_ practically a baby, and I met Prompto when I was, uh, in high school. What about the big muscle guy, Gladio?”

Ignis snorts. “Are you trying to tell me you are no longer a moody little brat?”

“Thanks, Iggy.”

“Gladiolus Amicitia was born into a long line of protectors tasked to serve the Kings of Lucis and the royal family. He was your sworn shield. He trained you to fight.”

“Oh. That explains a lot,” Noctis mumbles. “Was he always so… hot-headed?” 

“He wasn’t always the most, ah, patient man, but he only wanted you to stay out of trouble. The gods knew you always had a knack for landing yourself in hot water.” Ignis hadn’t been there to witness the unfortunate catastrophe that bequeathed Gladio the scar over his left eye, but he knows the story well enough. “He cared a great deal for you, make no mistake.”

Noctis fidgets a little. “Did he train you, too? I know you can fight. I saw the daggers and the—“ he makes a soaring motion with one hand— “backflips.”

“Gladio and I sparred, on occasion. We mastered different styles of combat. I was mostly too quick for him to keep up.” 

“What about us?”

“Yes, we had our own practice rounds.”

“Bet _I_ kept up.”

“Just barely. You were always very distracted by something.”

“Probably your fault.”

Ignis is amused by the confidence he hears in the response. Noctis, as a young prince, had never been so forward. He’d danced around Ignis for an age and only grew bold enough with his advances when Ignis backed him into a corner and managed to trick him into becoming his date for the graduation ball. “As the years went by, I figured that out,” Ignis admits. “That’s not to say you were terrible in the training room. Very competitive, if I recall.”

Noctis grins and shifts his body slightly, and Ignis feels bony shoulder blades dig into his chest. He moves to make more room for Noctis, but it’s a little too cramped for two grown adults to be sitting comfortably on a single beanbag. 

They’re lounging on a black one, Noctis leaning into Ignis, his back resting against Ignis’ front, hair prickling the underside of Ignis’ chin. Ignis wonders if Noctis can feel every breath he takes, feel every small movement and heartbeat.

The white door is gone, and with it, the large shelf full of books. Noctis, in his initial moment of frustration after returning to Valhalla, had decided to fill the empty space with _something_ , because, well, Noctis just does things on a whim. He does what he wants. It would definitely explain why there’s currently a dozen beanbags strewn all over the stone floor, and it would also explain why he’s now half-sitting in Ignis’ lap.

The God of Death’s memory is still fresh and clear and bleeding itself across the hall.

Noctis had been quiet and withdrawn upon their return, shuttered and closed off. And Ignis, in that instant, had been reminded of the times Prince Noctis would shut himself away from the world after the Marilith left him unable to walk, after nightmare upon nightmare left him crippled with visions of death and blood and fire. Those nightmares that followed him had always left the young prince scrambling for Ignis, scrambling for some sense of normalcy and safety.

Ignis had, long ago, been sure that the daemon destroyed something inside of the prince – a light that once burned bright – leaving behind a weak flicker that only reignited itself years later. It meant Noctis retreating into himself for the longest time, becoming distant and reserved and unresponsive. But Ignis had been relieved to find that while Noctis would shut everyone else out, he’d stick to Ignis like glue, would hang on to every single word Ignis read to him from the colourful picture books of the Citadel library and the book of constellations Ignis had gifted him with on his seventh birthday.

Which is why Ignis hadn’t questioned Noctis when he chose to slot his body against Ignis’ on the beanbag, to sag against him like Ignis were a physical pillar of strength.

It is why he is now regaling Noctis with tales of a lost time, old stories that offer Noctis the safety he needs. 

He divulges secrets about the graduation ball, which had been a tumultuous affair of cheesy songs, dreadfully mediocre food, and _plenty_ of dry speeches. The prince had to make one, Ignis tells him. Noctis had been valedictorian, and had been terribly nervous about speaking. Ignis had helped him write it.

“Prompto accidentally set it on fire just before your delivery.”

“Of course he did,” Noctis snorts.

“Prompto always _did_ have an impeccable sense of timing,” Ignis agrees, wrapping an arm around Noctis and pulling him closer.

He feels Noctis’ body droop against him, feels him sigh. “And who was Lunafreya?” he asks, voice soft. “We talked about her.”

Ignis pauses for a moment. “She was your bride-to-be, but she died before the wedding. You saw her, in the same memory that left me blind.”

“That’s the most depressing thing I have ever heard.”

“It upset you a great deal. It upset all of us.”

“Did I choose to marry her?”

“No.”

“But I had to,” Noctis guesses.

“There was a war. You won’t like the story.”

“Okay. Was she nice?”

“She was strength and grace. You admired her very much. The both of you kept in touch, despite years of separation. Through Umbra,” he adds.

He feels Noctis twitch against him.

“The dog in your, uh, my— in the Citadel throne room?”

“The very same, I suspect.”

“Do you trust it?”

“That depends. Do you trust yourself?”

“Kind of a loaded question,” Noctis hums, and then he is quiet. “Do you know what Umbra is?” he says finally. 

Ignis breathes in. “You once told me not all memory lanes have to be a literal path with doors. You ask if I know what Umbra is. I say yes. I think I do.”

He thinks of Prompto, of Prompto’s message—

_His name is Ignis Scientia. He'll give you everything._

It had read like a puzzle, but it now makes sense. 

Prompto had always been perceptive, despite what others may have thought of him and his whimsically romantic notions. Prompto wasn’t a child. Ignis knows now that Prompto had given more thought to Noctis’ predicament than Ignis could ever have anticipated. 

He’d been so adamant. _Find Iggy_ , he’d screamed in the only way he knew how. 

But Prompto didn’t just want Noctis to look for his childhood sweetheart (though the sentiment certainly seemed to have ended up being the driving factor for Noctis). No, Prompto had screamed for Noctis to find the one person who had been closest to him, who had known him the longest, who had been by his side from the beginning, who had known him even better than Noctis knew himself. Prompto walked the halls of Valhalla and figured out how this worked. Prompto, bless his soul, had banked on the chance that Ignis would be able to, maybe, somehow lead the God of Death to his own memory lane. 

Because their memories intersect so many times, they are almost exact copies of each other. _Of course_ Ignis’ corridor, with its familiar walls and dark glossy tiles of the Citadel, would lead to the throne of Lucis. _Of course_ their memories would bleed into each other, with their past lives so intertwined. Prompto had, most likely, come to that conclusion.  

And Prompto, most likely, had been right. 

But he already knows that Noctis knows this, already knows what Umbra stands for. 

It shows in the way Noctis stays resolutely silent.

“Which soul up there will you choose next?” Ignis asks him gently.

Noctis startles. It’s clearly not a question he’d been expecting. Ignis hadn’t intended it to be. The god casts a glance skyward and he shakes his head. “No idea,” he says eventually. “I was thinking…” Noctis trails off, then shakes his head again. “It doesn’t matter, they all look exactly the same. Can’t tell them apart. If only I knew who and what to look out for, huh? If I knew, I’d pick, I dunno, Gladio. In a flash. If he’s up there.”

Ignis hears the exhaustion in Noctis’ voice.

“Tell me about the gods, Noct. The ones you’ve met. I believe you mentioned a particular dislike toward some of them.”

Noctis leans forward a bit, cranes his neck around to give Ignis a look, and Ignis blinks back with a hope that Noctis will _understand_. 

He’s given a fragment of himself to Noctis. Perhaps Noctis is willing to let Ignis discover a part of him.

Noctis worries at his lip for a few moments and gives a slight nod, then settles back against Ignis, rests his head in the crook of Ignis’ neck. And he tells him exactly what he thinks of the gods. He tells him what the gods are like, which ones he’s met, which ones he thinks shouldn’t be gods at all.

“Gentiana wasn’t kidding when she told me to trust none of them,” Noctis tells him conspiratorially. “Bhunivelze’s shady as fuck, and don’t get me started on Odin – I’ve met, like, twenty different versions of Odin, not all of them friendly. Hyne’s my least favourite, no idea what his deal is, but he’s not a nice god. None of the Great Ones are.

“I think there’s a hierarchy of power. Gods that are able to create their own worlds are up _here_ —” Noctis makes a gesture with his hand, reaching just above his head. “Then there are lesser gods, who think they’re pretty awesome or whatever.” He lowers his hand slightly. “But usually they’re just really stupid and like to pick fights. And then, there are the _really_ unimportant gods. The ones that act as vessels or messengers, or, you know—” he gestures to himself— “tools.”

Ignis snorts. Noctis always did have a way to describe things. 

“I don’t fully understand it and I really don’t give a crap. From what I’ve seen, plenty of gods just end up abandoning the worlds they create, and leave their people to fend for themselves. Some even decide to destroy everything. Like, they go away for a few thousand years, get bored, come back, and just… choose to ruin everything. I mean, not _every_ god is like that, but many come close. Many turn their followers into pawns and it’s pretty disgusting to watch.”

This doesn't surprise Ignis. “Tell me, Noct. Have you ever come across the one known as the Draconian in all your time here?” 

“The Draconian? That’s a really bad name. He calls himself that?”

“He is Eos’ God of War. One of the Astrals.”

Noctis frowns, a look of concentration passing over his face. “No. I don’t _think_ so? Can’t remember. Why? Should I be looking out for this guy?”

Ignis smiles and shakes his head. Perhaps it is a good thing Noctis hasn’t yet encountered Bahamut. “I think it would be best if you didn’t.”

“Shit, what did he do?”

Noctis sounds like he expects a terrible tale full of injustice and misfortune, and that’s close enough to the truth. Ignis doesn’t want to tell it. “A story for another day, I think,” he settles for.

“That bad, huh?”

“Depends on who you hear it from, I suppose.”

Noctis falls silent. It takes him a while to say his next words, spoken hesitantly like he’s been thinking long and hard whether or not to say them. “Ignis,” he mumbles, “do you have any regrets?”

The question surprises Ignis, but it’s not one that he doesn’t have an answer to. “Plenty, Noct.” 

“Such as?”

Ignis chuckles. “For one, not making out in the backseat of the Regalia like you once told me you fantasised about.”

Noctis falls silent again, which is not the response Ignis expects. Noctis pulls himself up so he’s sitting upright, and he turns his body around so he can look Ignis in the eye.

Ignis knows exactly what Noctis is about to say to him.

“There’s a whole world waiting for you. I shouldn’t keep you here.” 

“And what sort of chamberlain would I be, to leave my king alone?” 

“You’re not my chamberlain, I am no king.”

“Let me rephrase. What sort of friend would I be, to leave someone to endure an eternity of loneliness while he tries desperately to find company, only to kick them out of his home at the end of the day?” 

“Ignis.”

“Merely making a point, Noct. I’m staying.”

“Whether I like it or not. Got it.”

“You’re angry.”

“You deserve a _life_ , Ignis. You deserve to move on. You deserve more than—” Noctis lifts his hands up, whether in exasperation or in defeat, Ignis doesn’t know.

“And what do _you_ deserve, Noctis?”

Noctis stares at Ignis, resentment still in his eyes.

“What do you want?” Ignis reiterates softly, when Noctis doesn’t say anything.

“You,” Noctis says at last. “Of course I want you.” 

Ignis’ heart does a sharp and painful thing in his chest, like it’s beating too hard and too fast, and it’s incredible how he feels about Noctis, even after all this time.

“You asked about regrets,” Ignis finds himself saying, “I never told you, not in words, not in the way you wanted.” He takes a deep breath. “I love you, Noct. Loved you the moment I knew what it meant to love someone. I loved you and I love you still. I’m telling you now so you will _never_ forget.”

It’s an admission. One he’s happy to give. And thank the gods he’s said it because his reward is an absolutely breathtaking smile from Noctis, one free from hidden sadness, one that is so overflowing with affection that Ignis feels giddy with a sort of relief that, until this moment, he hadn’t realised he’d been keeping pent up inside him. He loves Noctis. And Noctis loves him back. He does, he knows he does.

Noctis shifts his body, moves his legs so he’s now straddling Ignis, looks at Ignis and says, truthful and matter-of-fact, face an inch away, voice low enough to make Ignis’ heart stop beating: “The moody little brat was wrong, I really don’t think you’re ugly at all.”

It’s whispered like a secret.

And Ignis laughs, looks down at where Noctis’ fingers are gripping at his hips, looks back up into Noctis’ open gaze, into pupils blown so wide and wondrous they make Ignis think of the night sky. “I get that, Noct. You’ve made it abundantly clear.”

The kiss that follows is the most magical thing. He kisses him and kisses him, and Noctis kisses back like he’s been dying to do just that since the beginning of time, lips eager and pliant and demanding.

He feels Noctis melt against him, feels him press up against Ignis like he wants to meld their bodies together, and Ignis tightens his hold on Noctis. Magic thrums under Ignis’ palms, and the flutter of Noctis’ dark eyelashes does strange things low in Ignis’ stomach and deep in his heart. And Ignis is reminded of what he’s always known: this is the boy who once fought against the might of gods and won, who once died for a world plunged into darkness and despair, who dragged the dawn back with his very last breath and started life anew; this is the Last King of Lucis and this is the God of Death of Valhalla and this is the most painfully beautiful creature in all the cosmos. And Ignis knows he should feel small and powerless and _insignificant_ next to him. But all he feels is pride and love and Ignis is quite convinced this is what worship is like. 

The sheer amount of _want_ he feels from Noctis is explosive and all around them, pushing against every inch of him. Ignis half-closes his eyes and relishes in the physical sensation of Noctis’ fingers sliding under the fabric of his shirt and pressing against his skin, relishes in the way Noctis’ teeth scrape against his bottom lip, the way his tongue darts out and licks there.

Ignis is aware that Noctis is the strongest creature he has ever known, is aware that Noctis has lived a thousand lifetimes just to grant him this, and will live a million more to deliver a promise.

Noctis looks like a wreck when he pulls back, lips swollen and eyes glazed, and Ignis can only imagine he looks equally a mess. “Did I do that right?” Noctis asks, breathless.

Ignis leans himself forward. “You’ve never done it wrong, Noct.”

Noctis smiles. “It would be nice to remember.”

And Ignis smiles back. He sees the pinpricks of light from above them reflected in Noctis’ blue eyes, takes in the unfathomable number of souls he sees there, an endless well of secrets spanning the lives of countless— 

He blinks.

It’s in the _way_ they shine, the slight difference, a shade off, that makes Ignis realise it. It’s the strangeness, the strangeness that seems impossibly new. Noctis’ eyes reflect more than just the distant sadness of the stars, more than just cold, unrecognisable flecks with unfamiliar stories to tell.

Ignis tears his eyes away from Noctis’, looks _up_. It has been far too long since he’s _properly_ _looked,_ and— 

It’s an amazing thing, to be hit with the staggering sense of pure _recognition_. It’s a crippling thing, and Ignis is completely frozen at the sight. There aren’t many, of course there aren’t, out of the millions and millions, but he identifies the ones that matter, clear as day. The lights are no longer just lights. He _knows_ them the moment his eyes find them.

He _sees_ them. Recognises every familiar soul he has ever come across on Eos. All of them. But _of course_. He has every last scrap of his memories.

He's free.

Just like Noctis will be. Just like Noctis _can_ be. 

The God of Death just has to recognise them too.

He kisses Noctis again and says, against his lips, “Stargazing was always something you loved.” 

“Funny how things turn out, huh?” Noctis murmurs back. “My whole existence is just all about stargazing now.”

“Noct,” Ignis says, and gently pulls away. “Umbra is King Noctis Lucis Caelum’s white door.” 

“Yes, Ignis,” Noctis whispers. “I know.”

“I think,” Ignis says, and chooses his words very, very carefully and hopes Noctis will be able to _understand_ , “that Umbra will give you everything you need.”

Noctis doesn’t react for a moment. And then he takes a deep breath and smiles. “Okay,” he says. “Okay, Iggy, I believe you. Would you… would you like to take me to Umbra?” 

“Yes, Noct, I would.”

 

\--

 

Umbra makes an exceedingly happy noise when they enter the Citadel throne room. Everything here is bright and beautiful, just the way they left it. And Umbra slobbers all over Noctis’ hand when he reaches out to pat the dog on the head in greeting.

Umbra’s a cute dog, but the creature has eyes that look old and sharp, and they tell Ignis that there are some secrets reserved only for gods and kings.

“It would seem he is disinclined to take extra passengers with him,” Ignis says, though he’s expected this.

“Didn’t think so,” Noctis mutters and swats at the paw that Umbra has lifted excitedly. “Not fair, but I guess you’re not a Deathkeeper and you can’t receive memories that aren’t yours.” Noctis doesn’t hide his nerves, but he doesn’t back away either. “S’okay, I’ll come back.”

“And I’ll be waiting.”

“I know.” Umbra nuzzles its snout against Noctis’ hand and it seems to calm Noctis down.

Ignis smiles and thinks that even if he has to wait thirty years or even thirty centuries for Noctis to come back, it would be worth it.

“It’s a walk in the park,” Ignis tells him, echoing the words Noctis once reassured him with when he’d gone through his first door.

“I don’t know who I’ll be when I return,” Noctis admits. 

“Yes, you do.”

Noctis smiles a little. “You’d make a really good God of Death, Ignis.”

Ignis laughs, and he reaches out, takes Noctis’ hand in his and squeezes it gently. “I’ll see you soon, Noct.”

Noctis squeezes back; a promise, unspoken. Ignis knows Noctis never breaks his promises.

And Noctis goes with Umbra.

He leaves Ignis standing alone in the throne room, blanketed with starlight spilling down from the heavens. 

Ignis looks up, finds the largest star in the sky, blinking down at him, hot and petulant. “He’ll come back,” he tells it patiently. “He’ll come back, and he’ll take us home.”

 

And Noctis does come back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ignis’ story ends here. the last chapter belongs to noctis. and the epilogue to follow belongs to them both.


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _the sound of the wind is whispering in your ear_  
>  _can you feel it coming back?_  
>  _through the warmth, through the cold, keep running 'til we're there_  
>  _we're coming home now, we're coming home now;_  
>  \- [Home, Dotan](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FZEuqzW16Nw)

**_Part I: The God of Death_ **

 

Noctis finds Prompto quite by accident. Or, perhaps, it has always been something written in the stars, though Noctis isn’t really the type to fall for such bullshit.

Noctis finds Prompto when he picks out some bright yellow star with an obnoxiously erratic flicker. _Here, here, pick me, pick me_ , it screeches into the depressing silence of the soulscape. The flickering annoys him for some time – longer than necessary, really – and after ferrying a man who’d finally lived all nine of his lives and died properly (he’d called himself a “nine-lived enchanter”, what an arrogant asshole he’d been), Noctis eventually summons the attention-seeking star just so he can stop its incessant blinking once and for all.

Prompto takes a while to gain his footing in Valhalla. Noctis had been impatient with him from the start.

Like a lost lamb, he freaks out about _everything_. He freaks out about the dark-haired stranger greeting him in the middle of a ruin (“You look like you haven’t slept in a billion years, dude!”), freaks out about being dead and not remembering how he died (“Wait, did something eat me? I bet something ate me!”), freaks out about the luminous pinpricks of light floating overhead in the vacuum of ink (“You mean it’s _always_ night here? That sucks!”), freaks out about the pressing cold (“Do your fingers feel like they’re gonna fall off, too?”). But when he starts becoming less of a lost soul and more _Prompto_ , he surprises Noctis by turning out to be quite likeable.

Well. “Likeable” is probably not a word the God of Death would say to Prompto’s face, but he secretly knows it’s true.

He enjoys Promoto’s company. Prompto, he remembers for much longer than most.

He remembers his freckles and his smile. He remembers bright blue eyes and golden hair and an emotional wreck with an intriguing past. He also remembers how they’d come across a grand library crammed with old bookcases and desks, somewhere in the labyrinth of Valhalla’s ruins, remembers how they decided to drag one of the heavy shelves to the main hall like idiots on a mission (that had taken far too long and had required far too much effort). He remembers Prompto’s disjointed memories that made very little sense, that made Noctis feel strangely alive and, at the same time, miserably unsettled. He remembers how they’d tried to snatch objects from some netherworld, remembers they were bad at shoving them back where they came from (so they had littered the dresser drawers with their collection of baubles and trinkets). He remembers Prompto’s excitement at the fact that Noctis is a _god_. At the fact that there are so many souls in the sky, dead but alive in their own way, all looking for a place to call home.

Noctis remembers Prompto at the pinnacle of his being, when Prompto had become _whole_ and _true_ , rattling off names that mean nothing to him (“And my chocobo was Little Miss Buttercream, you gotta remember her?”, “She proposed to _me_ , dude! As if anyone could say no to Aranea”, “He built his own house on the outskirts of Insomnia, with his bare hands. Because... he’s Gladio.”). And he remembers Prompto crying and telling him so many things that Noctis remembers vowing he’d try not to forget.

There are desperate words that Prompto carves and writes. “I hope they help”, he’d said, and Noctis hopes so, too.

Ultimately, Prompto leaves his scraps of memories with Noctis when he says goodbye, a way for Noctis to preserve some sort of promise. Noctis knows it’s important, this collection of strange photographs, and Noctis keeps it close to his heart, behind the locked door of his discovered magic.

When Prompto leaves, Noctis tries his best. He really does. It’s a long time before he starts to forget the sound of Prompto’s voice, of his laughter, of his singsong lilt.

A long time, Noctis knows, is nothing to a god.

 

He forgets the way Prompto’s voice sounds a thousand souls later, forgets his star had ever been a maddening bother after he shepherds two thousand to the afterlife, forgets exactly what their most intimate conversations had ever been about by the five thousandth. Not that Noctis is counting.

He doesn’t count the souls. Not anymore.

The messages are still etched in the wood of the dresser and scribbled on the inside of the photo album and inked onto the back of a particular photograph that stands out from the rest. Immortal words that transcend time.

He doesn’t understand the meaning behind the words by the time he well and truly forgets Prompto’s name, just that the words are important in some abstract way. He ferries a girl named River and a boy named Ienzo to the other side, and he remembers their stories for a long time, too, because they’d been tragic and odd respectively. He meets two god-like visitors that don’t offer up their names, meets the lady dressed in black several times. She’s always been a confusing amalgamation of grace and danger – Noctis can sense her power, and Noctis does not like it.

On one occasion, she brings a strange creature to his home.

If it had been her way of giving Noctis a new friend, Noctis thinks it’s a pretty poor effort. Carbuncle doesn’t speak, only makes noises that mean nothing to Noctis, which means it doesn’t make great company, though it seems to show up when Noctis feels lonely. It’s a careful kind of tact, the way the creature will appear out of nowhere and squeak at him and bump its nose against his calves, and it’s something Noctis learns to appreciate.

In the end, Prompto doesn't quite matter anymore, only his words and his photographs give Noctis the drive he needs.

He witnesses the lives of lovers and liars, musicians and thieves, monsters and killers, pacifists and warmongers; the beautiful, the evil, the strong, the weak, the sad, the happy.

He constantly looks at the photographs; constantly looks at one in particular, its message loud and clear. And he tries not to feel angry.  
  
He explores the sprawling maze-like labyrinth of Valhalla, comes across hidden rooms that tell stories only the ancient Deathkeepers would know about – gardens crowded with luminous crystal, a silent chamber with a fountain frozen over with ice, a rubble-filled clearing with burn marks on the floors and walls.  
  
He stands in front of the mirror in the bedchamber and learns to change his appearance to suit his visitors. He learns what they like; he learns that wearing the face of a little boy makes this easier. And he vaguely remembers coming across a murderer with dark eyes who talked in riddles, and an intelligent scholar with hair the colour of a deep indigo twilight. Their memories had been tragic and odd respectively, but there were also many who’d lived lives so monotonous and unfulfilled that Noctis had, along the way, started to pay less and less attention. And it’s a niggling thing at the back of his mind sometimes, when he suddenly recalls a man who loved giant yellow birds; who married a sharp-mouthed woman with silver hair; who gave him a book of photographs; who taught him how to make things appear out of thin air; who carved nonsense words into the furniture.

  
  
Noctis falls asleep once.

When he wakes up disoriented and not knowing if his name is indeed “Noctis” or something else entirely, he never does it again. Instead, he uses his breaks in between ferrying souls to practice summoning the phantom things he can feel floating in the ether.

No one else from Eos wanders into his home, and so he feels impatient, and then devastated, and then numb.  
  
He discovers, after a visit from a nameless goddess (“Etro, most likely,” the lady in black insists): ten thousand souls and his job is done. Name a successor, and he can leave.  
  
He learns he can leave. And the prospect germinates in his mind like a cancer. Like a selfish desire that coils around his heart and leaves him stricken with frustration.  
  
He doesn’t leave.  
  
He knows he shouldn’t. He knows he should stay.  
  
And the lady in black chastises him gently for his stubbornness and his devotion to an unbearable cause.  
  
And Noctis hardens his heart and ignores her, learns to swallow down the sour taste of selfish desire in his mouth. He has a promise to keep, impossible as it may be. He knows it’s stupid, knows he’s dooming himself, but she can laugh at him all she wants.  
  
So he guides an old sorceress with a dog named Angelo to the next world, sends a magician with a prominent battle scar to the next world, ushers a woman with two-toned eyes to the next world. Their stories meld together, all shrill songs of colour and emotion that don’t mean anything to him.  
  
He has stiff conversations with the lady in black, and abstract non-conversations with Carbuncle.  
  
He gets better at calling forth phantom things.  
  
It takes many tries, but he manages to pull the beanbags out of the ether one by one by one by one. There are a dozen of them, of every colour of the rainbow and more. It takes a very long time to perfect it, to get them to appear where he wants them.

 

By the time he meets Ignis Scientia, he’s really, really fucking good at it.

 

When he sees Ignis on the throne, frighteningly foreign and familiar, it takes everything in him not to drop the book he’s holding, takes all his willpower not to conjure up the single photograph with the stupid message on the back, the one he’s held close to his heart, even closer than all the rest.

“Oh, here we go,” he tells Ignis, as cynical as he can manage, but really, he’s bracing himself for something uncharted. He’s not ready, he’s not _ready_. And his sense of dread mingles with the ghostly grip of some sort of wistful nostalgia and untamed yearning and overwhelming relief for something that hasn’t happened yet.

_He's not ready._

But this is it.  
  
By the time he hears Prompto’s voice again for the first time in forever (and it is forever), when he takes Ignis to his fifth memory by the campsite, it sends Noctis reeling, and Noctis knows he’s done something right. He’s going in some sort of direction that’s _good_. And it terrifies him.  
  
Ignis is something else. Ignis is not like Prompto. Prompto had been as loud and unerringly cheerful as his buzzing soul had been, a flickering light with a heart of gold and a zest for the unknown – he had never asked questions.  
  
Ignis is different. Ignis asks questions.  
  
Ignis is cautious. Ignis is wary. Ignis is careful with himself and even more careful with Noctis. Ignis doesn’t say it, but Noctis knows Ignis hates Valhalla. Hates its hard stone floors and harsh loneliness. Hates the oily forever-midnight above their heads, hates the spidering cracks that Noctis knows Ignis sees in his façade.

Noctis can never fool Ignis.  
  
Ignis and Prompto are opposites. Not that Noctis has any way of comparing the two. Prompto is only scratchings on a dresser and photographs in a book.  
  
Ignis is different because Noctis _knows_ who Ignis is; in theory, he knows who Ignis is _supposed_ to be. He has a book of photographs given to him by a stranger, and no matter how chronologically disjointed they are, Noctis at least knows this: Ignis is Eos-born and Ignis has honey-brown hair and Ignis is supposed to be blind, face littered with scars that hold a savage kind of beauty, and Ignis had kissed him once (maybe more than once, but he only learns that later) because he has proof.  
  
_I swear you can trust him,_ Prompto had written. _He'll give you everything._  
  
And Prompto had been right. It’s Ignis he’s been waiting for all this time. It’s Ignis who manages to unravel the tightly wound feelings of loneliness in his heart.

And Valhalla is no longer a cage. 

By the time he guides Ignis through his final door, Noctis is one step from home.  
  
  
  
The God of Death follows Umbra to a world of light and magic. To Eos. And Noctis watches his life unfold through layers of beautiful memories, ugly memories, unbelievable memories. And he questions none of them. He’s seen them through enough eyes to know they’re all real.

Noctis travels through his own memory lane alone. When he returns to Valhalla, he is no longer just a god.

He is a king.

 

* * *

 

**_Part II: Noctis Lucis Caelum_ **

 

Noct is tired. Like, really tired. He kind of wants a nap. But he supposes that’s a silly thing to want, because he once napped ten years and that hadn’t been very fun. He never wants to do that again.

Wait, are his eyes closed?

Noct blinks, and the Citadel throne room comes into sharp focus. He has a splitting headache and he feels a little sick. He’s always telling them: _Going to pass out? Need to throw up?_ And now he knows the feeling firsthand. It’s not nice at all.

He’s sitting on the throne, where Umbra had been. Of course he is. And he tries not to think too hard about it.

He died on this stupid chair.

Throne. Whatever.

Umbra is no longer around, which Noctis is a little sad about, but that’s not the thing that immediately catches his attention.

He stares down at the throne room floor, where a figure is lounging. 

It’s Ignis, sitting on the black beanbag, reading _The Constellation Mythos_ he’d gotten Noct for his seventh birthday. For an absurd moment, Noct wonders how many times he’d made Ignis read that book to him on sleepless nights. How many times he’d made Ignis repeat the names and histories of the stars that shine over Eos in that soothing voice of his just to chase the night terrors away. He knows it’d been plenty.

Ignis hasn’t looked up from his spot on the floor. He’s not aware of Noctis, or perhaps he happens to know exactly where Noctis is (who’s he kidding, of course he does) and is waiting for something to happen. Waiting for Noctis to make the first move.

And Noct can’t help himself. He clears his throat, sees the way Ignis’ lips quirk up slightly, and it’s all the encouragement he needs. “So,” he says, voice a little scratchy, “the hero disappears for ten years, only to come back to die a painful death and never see his friends again? I’m really not buying this one, Specs. Terrible ending.”

And Ignis, beautiful Ignis, looks up, and his expression is amazingly fond, his gaze alight with an emotion Noctis is certain he can name. “No, Noct,” Ignis says, calm and slow, voice intoxicatingly tender, “it’s a dreadful story. I don’t buy it either.”

And that’s it. 

Noctis gathers something small in his hand – he knows it’s the coin he’d once given Ignis to practice with – and throws it. Ignis drops his book and surges up to catch it with one hand, and Noctis doesn’t even wait a split-second longer. He knows he can do it.

It’s a fair distance, but he throws himself forward anyway, warps himself right into Ignis’ arms, and it’s like he’s never forgotten how.

The coin falls to the ground and disappears into wisps of light, and he sweeps Ignis into a crushing hug. He feels magic cascade around them in a crystalline haze, radiant and blissful and exultant, and the magic feels real, and it feels whole. On impulse, he kisses Ignis’ eyelids, both of them, his cheeks, his nose, his lips.

“Hi,” he says breathlessly when he pulls back with a stupid smile on his face, and he mentally punches himself because he’s always been such an idiot around Iggy. Hi? What the fuck even is that? 

And he feels tears slipping down his cheeks, but he doesn’t care. He doesn’t _care_. Ignis is fucking beautiful and unscarred and he—

Oh, gods.

“How long have I been gone?” he asks.

“Hush,” Ignis tells him, lips against his forehead. “That is the least important thing we should be discussing.”

“But—”

“The company’s been good,” Ignis assures him, and Noctis wonders about that, but Ignis is smiling at him and Ignis is reaching for his hand and Noctis feels steady fingers intertwining with his. “We’re on the same page now, are we not?”

Noctis considers the glimmer of magic he feels tethering them together, bright and constant; feels the soft hum of magic that connects them, something electric and warm and alive. He looks at Ignis, his oldest friend, handsome and intelligent and witty, loyal beyond measure and lethal on any battlefield. It’s kind of ridiculous, how much Noctis loves him. “Yeah, we’re on the same page,” he says, and pulls Ignis a little closer. “And before you try to deny it, it was _you_. I punched _you_ in the face _._ Not Gladio.”

“Ah, yes.” Ignis doesn’t even miss a beat. “You did attempt something like that, once upon a time.”

“I broke your nose.” 

“Worth the trouble.”

“Really? Because you moaned about it for days. I was _there_.”

“This is true. I will never tickle you again. You have my word.” 

And Noctis laughs, and Ignis gives him an affectionate smile.

“You look different,” he says softly. 

There’s something in Ignis’ voice, and Noctis ducks his head. It’s true. He knows his hair is longer. It hangs down the side of his face in wiry strands, curtains his eyes, touches the tip of his nose. And maybe Noctis feels a little self-conscious, because he’s probably got wrinkles and probably looks like he hasn’t slept in a billion years. “Like what you see?” he teases.

Ignis studies him like he knows Noctis wants to hide under a rock. “It’s a fetching look, Your Majesty.” 

Noctis pulls a face, but he’s sure it’s a dorky smile instead. “Just ‘Noct’, Specs.”

Ignis raises an eyebrow. “I’m not actually wearing spectacles, you know.”

“Perfect vision’s a good look on you.” 

“A facelift for everyone, then.” 

And Noctis smiles and leans in and kisses Ignis again, soft and sweet, and again, fervent and passionate and eager. And it takes a long, long while before they finally pull apart. And Ignis’ eyes are appealingly bright and his lips are gorgeously swollen, and he tells Noctis something that sounds like a secret.

“If you’d like,” he says, a curiously playful lilt in his voice that makes Noct’s breath catch in his throat, “I’d quite like to introduce you to a few old friends.”

Noctis laughs breathlessly. “You been hiding them from me?”

Ignis smiles. “For the moment,” he says, “but they want to meet you, too.”

“Ah, so where are they?”

“They’ve always been where you can see them,” Ignis tells him. “You just needed to figure out exactly who they are.”

Oh.

And Noctis takes in a sharp breath, holds it. He feels Ignis’ fingers squeeze lightly at his hand, and he tilts his head to look up at the heavens, where millions of nameless souls have been blinking down at him since forever. And – yeah, it hits him like a meteor from the sky, like a thunderbolt hurled from the palm of Ramuh, like a dream coming into sharp focus after an eon of hiding in the shadows.

Out of the absolute blackness of the soulscape, he sees them like he’s never seen them before. Familiar lights among the strange, souls shining with a ferocity he has never encountered until now. 

He knows how to look and where to look and _who_ to look for.

The sky is littered with them.

“Old friends,” Noctis hums, and he counts them all.

Iris Amicitia is there. Blinding and beautiful. There is a feeling of joy radiating from her when Noctis’ eyes pass over her star, and Noctis shares a secretive little smile with her, though it’s not a secret, really, because he knows they’re _all_ watching him from up there. They always have been.

He can just about make out Cor Leonis in the distance, unblinking and intense.

And, oh.

That’s _definitely_ his dad, adjacent to Cor, fierce and glistening like a comet frozen in time. He hadn’t been ferried to the next life by the old Goddess of Death after all.

“I see him,” Ignis murmurs. “Your father.”

“Yeah, I’ve got him,” Noctis says quietly, resolutely, staring at the arcs of rainbow light connecting his dad’s star to a handful of surrounding souls in its vicinity. “I’ll get him,” he vows. “I _will_.”

Clarus to Regis’ left, Weskham to the south. Cid further back, with Cindy flanking his star.

Talcott’s next to Iris. He even notices classmates from school. So many from the Citadel; members of staff, the royal court, the Crownsguard, Ignis’ uncle, even some of the Glaive, right down to people he’d met at state galas and formal events.

That’s Aranea, like a little half-shadowed moon projecting ripples of soft light.

He sees them all. And—

Ah, there he is.

It’s definitely him.

Gladiolus Amicitia is a great big ball of stark white _fire_ , blazing and boiling and scorching everything around him with a recklessness that is overpoweringly familiar. Only Gladio, Noctis thinks with an amused huff, and he rolls his eyes, which earns him an elbow in the side from Ignis. Noctis grins. It feels like he hasn’t smiled so wide in all the time he’s been alive.

“Better not keep our friend waiting,” Ignis tells him idly. “He clearly hasn’t got all day.” 

Noctis laughs, and Gladio’s star flares brilliantly, emits strength and impatience in wild and rolling waves as if to say,

_Shut up and come get me, dumbass. I’ve been waiting forever. Can’t believe you picked Prom and Iggy first. I hate you all so much._

  

It's like finding the sun.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a short epilogue to follow.
> 
>  **Trivia & References:**  
> 1) The “nine-lived enchanter” is borrowed from Diana Wynne Jones’ _Chrestomanci_ multiverse.  
>  2) River is from Joss Whedon’s _Firefly_ , and Ienzo is from _Kingdom Hearts_.  
>  3) Mentioned in Chapter 15, the god Bhunivelze is from the _Fabula Nova Crystallis: Final Fantasy_ universe. Etro, also a deity from the same universe, created the laws of Valhalla. Events from the _Final Fantasy XIII_ series lead to Valhalla’s expiry.  
>  4) Also mentioned in Chapter 15, the god Hyne is from _Final Fantasy VIII_ , and Odin is a recurring summon in the _Final Fantasy_ series (and also a proper god in Norse mythology, of course).  
>  5) The “old sorceress with a dog named Angelo” is Rinoa Heartilly from _Final Fantasy VIII_.  
>  6) All other cameos are pretty vague, so I’ll leave the rest up to your imagination!


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _first it's the spark and then it's the flame,_  
>  _then it's swinging round round lamp posts in the rain._  
>  _well then it's that feeling that you, you just can't shake,_  
>  _that your life's about to start and you just can't wait;_  
>  \- [Spark, Amber Run](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VpXbbLv-ogc)

**_Epilogue_ **

 

Ignis wakes up with something akin to a splitting headache. It makes him feel disoriented and he has to blink several times to wash the afterimage of ghosts from his foggy mind. 

The sunlight is soft, filtering through the curtains just above the headboard like a sheen of white gold, cascading down on the bed like a near-tangible waterfall.

He sits up slowly, feeling the pain in his head recede like a tide. The bed sheets pool at his waist. They feel soft and clean, and they smell like the rose-scented fabric softener he bought the week before. Of course they do. He did the laundry just yesterday.

“Not like you to sleep in,” a teasing voice says from beside him, and Ignis turns to face his lover.

Noct has a lazy smile on his face, easy and affectionate. It’s enough to make his heart skip a beat. It reminds Ignis of the candlelight dinner they had just the night before, at the delightful restaurant two blocks away. Plenty of wine had been had. He relishes the memory for all but a few seconds before Noctis’ smile transforms into a concerned frown.

“Ignis?”

Ignis reaches out and touches Noct’s face, ghosts a thumb over his bottom lip. “Forgive me,” Ignis says, “I’m still waking up. To be frank, I just had the most ridiculous dream.”

Noct blinks, and then his smile comes back, wide and open. “Awesome. I _like_ ridiculous dreams!” he says excitedly, before glancing at the clock over Ignis’ shoulder, the one sitting on the bedside table. His expression drops and he swats Ignis’ hand away and sighs. “You’ll have to tell me about it later though. We’ve gotta get moving if we don’t want to be late for the opening of Prom’s exhibition downtown. He’d _kill_ us. And you know Gladio’s gonna beat us there ‘cause he’s a freak about being punctual all - the - time. Can’t let the kids down!” 

Ignis sighs. “You know they probably don’t appreciate you calling them ‘kids’ every chance you get.”

“They call us dumb names all the time!”

Ignis smiles. “You are the worst person on this earth, Noctis Caelum.” 

“Nah, I’m the most amazing guy you’ve ever met. You just don’t know it yet.”

Ignis looks at Noct. “Oh, I think I know full well.”

Noct beams, gives Ignis a chaste kiss on the mouth, and hops out of bed. He pauses and turns back to Ignis. For a moment, his eyes are soft and curious. “Was I in it?”

Ignis considers Noct’s easy and unburdened gaze, his calm and carefree smile. The sun-warmed bedroom they’re in is small and enclosed and comfortably warm; there are paintings and posters and photographs adorning the walls, bathed in late morning sunlight. Home looks just as it should. Ignis doesn’t fight the urge to smile back at Noct. “Ah, most definitely not, my prince.” 

Noct rolls his eyes. “Yeah, yeah,” he says as he turns and heads towards the bathroom, “don’t _you_ start with the stupid nicknames, too. You know better.

Ignis laughs, and he decides that it’s a good morning to make ricotta pancakes for breakfast and smother them in the lavender honey that Noct likes so much.

The clock next to him keeps ticking. The sun outside rises steadily.

_\- fin._

 

* * *

 

_**Coda** _

 

Prompto is now a celebrated wildlife photographer who travels the world. His latest project takes him to the tropical jungles of Borneo. On the side, he co-runs a shelter for stray cats and dogs with a fellow enthusiastic animal lover. 

Gladiolus is an up-and-coming actor who’s starred in a number of cheesy romantic comedies and a handful of action films (always the villain). He runs a tight schedule and barely has time to indulge in his yoga hobby. His sister is an enthusiastic animal lover. 

Aranea adopts three cats and a dog. 

Lunafreya and Ravus own a small bakery in town. They occasionally get into petty fights. Luna always wins. Their cousin pops by every now and then to help with the cakes and pastries, but he’s usually busy teaching at the local university.  

Ignis is an astronomy and physical sciences professor who loves his job. He frequents “Picky Beans”, a cafe tucked away in a corner of the university campus, mostly because the cute barista who works there keeps on giving him free coffee. 

Regis owns a cafe called “Picky Beans”.  

Noctis helps his dad out with his business. He starts to go on dates with a particular astronomy professor and eventually moves in with him. He lives past thirty.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> and there you have it, my first fic on ao3, done! to each and every reader and supporter of _finding the sun_ : thank you, thank you, thank you! i hope it has been a good journey!
> 
> additional media
> 
> chapter playlist:  
> 01` **silver lining** | lights  & motion  
> 02` **oceans** | emitt fenn, nylo  
>  03` **home ii** | dotan  
>  04` **dreamer** | kaptan, mokita  
>  05` **welcome home, son** | radical face  
>  06` **someone to stay** | vancouver sleep clinic  
>  07` **dead hearts** | stars  
>  08` **collide** | aeralie brighton  
>  09` **light** | sleeping at last  
>  10` **all i want** | dawn golden  
>  11` **cosmic love** | florence + the machine  
>  12` **hurricane** | fleurie  
>  13` **rising, rising** | crywolf  
>  14` **dear fellow traveler** | sea wolf  
>  15` **king** | lauren aquilina  
>  16` **home** | dotan  
>  17` **spark** | amber run
> 
> you can listen to the entire compilation on spotify [here](https://open.spotify.com/user/3ghostss/playlist/7d6T3vEFMBfTpZ4y81PHEY).


End file.
